MRS.  W.  E.  HALSai 

1801  W.  57th  St. 
KANSAS  CITY,  MO. 


bCSB  LIBRARY 


^s 


^^J 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2007  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/extonmanorOOmarsiala 


EXTON  MANOR 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES 

EXTON  MANOR 

THE  ELDEST  SON 

THE  SQUIRE'S  DAUGHTER 

THE  HONOUR  OF  THE  CLINTONS 

THE  GREATEST  OF  THESE 

THE  OLD  ORDER  CHANGETH 

WATERMEAD8 

UP8ID0NIA 

ABINQTON  ABBET 

THE  GRAFT0N9 

RICHARD  BALDOCK 

THB  CLINTONS  AND  OTHBKS 


J 


EXTON   MANOR 


ARCHIBALD   MARSHALL 

Author  oj  ''Richard  Baldock," 

'*The  House  of  Merrilets" 

etc. 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1919 


Copyright,  1908 
By  Dodd,  Mead  and  Company 


TO  THE 

LORD  MONTAGU  OF  BEAULIEU 


Preface  to  the  American  Edition 

Every  other  English  reviewer  v^ho  has  written  about  '*  Exton 
Manor  "  has  mentioned  the  name  of  Anthony  Trollope,  and, 
while  I  have  no  wish  to  come  before  American  readers  hanging 
on  to  the  coat  tails  of  a  great  man,  and  so  gain  a  notice  to 
which  my  own  performance  does  not  entitle  me,  I  may  yet 
gratefully  admit  my  indebtedness  to  Trollope,  and  acknowl- 
edge myself  a  follower  of  his  method,  at  least  in  "  Exton 
Manor." 

In  one  respect  it  is  not  only  Trollope  whom  I  have  tried 
to  follow,  but  the  whole  body  of  English  novelists  of  his 
date,  who  introduced  you  to  a  large  number  of  people,  and 
left  you  with  the  feeling  that  you  knew  them  all  intimately, 
and  would  have  found  yourself  welcome  in  their  society. 
That  particular  note  of  intimacy  seems  to  be  lacking  in  the 
fiction  of  the  present  <''ay,  and  I  should  like  to  have  it  back. 

What  Trollope  did,  and  he  was  neither  the  first  nor  the 
greatest  to  do  it,  was  to  make  up  his  groups  from  the  people 
whose  lives  are  lived  chiefly  in  the  English  country,  in  the 
Cathedral  or  country  town,  in  the  Hall,  the  parsonage,  and 
the  "  small  houac/'  which  is  perhaps  more  representative  of 
English  tastes  and  habits  than  any  other. 

Life  in  such  a  community  as  is  depicted  in  "  Exton  Manor'* 
is  just  as  typical  of  English  social  habits  as  it  was  in  Trollope's 
day.  The  tendency  of  those  who  have  hitherto  worked  on 
the  land  to  drift  into  the  towns  is  not  shared  by  the  more 
leisured  classes.  Their  tendency  is  all  the  other  way — to  for- 
sake the  towns  for  the  country, — and  improved  methods  of 
communication  keep  them  more  in  touch  with  the  world  than 
they  would  have  been  fifty  years  ago      But  in  spite  of  this 

vii 


vili  PREFACE 

increased  dependency  upon  the  outside  world,  English  country 
life  is  still  intensely  local  in  its  personal  interests,  and  quite 
legitimately  so,  for  it  must  be  remembered  that,  if  the  man 
who  lives  in  a  fairly  populous  country  village  comes  across 
fewer  people  than  the  man  who  lives  in  a  town,  he  knows  all 
about  those  whom  he  does  come  across,  and  his  acquaintances 
represent  a  far  greater  variety  of  type  and  class  than  is  met 
with  where  types  and  classes  tend  to  stratify.  You  have,  in 
fact,  in  a  typical  country  parish,  a  microcosm  of  English 
social  life,  and  there  is,  ready  to  the  hand  of  the  realistic 
novelist,  material  from  which  he  can  draw  as  much  interest 
and  variety  as  he  is  able  to  make  use  of.  Whether  I  have 
succeeded  in  the  following  pages  in  creating  that  interest  and 
variety,  while  confining  my  scenes  to  the  ground  covered  by 
a  small  country  village,  is  for  the  reader  to  judge.  Trollope 
could  certainly  have  done  so. 

I  should  like  to  take  this  opportunity  of  touching  on  a  few 
points  of  detail.  I  used  the  episode  of  marriage  with  a  de- 
ceased wife's  sister  with  no  polemical,  intention,  and  it  was 
by  accident  that  the  publication  of  "  Exton  Manor  "  coincided 
with  the  legalization  of  such  marriages  in  England.  It  was 
the  best  example  that  I  could  think  of  to  test  the  Christianity, 
as  apart  from  the  Churchmanship,  of  those  concerned. 

In  Mrs.  Prentice,  who  failed  to  pass  the  test,  I  have  been 
accused  of  an  overdrawn  character.  She  may  be  overdrawn ; 
but  she  drew  herself,  and  I  have  never  met  her.  I  certainly 
repudiate  her  as  my  conception  of  the  typical  country  clergy- 
man's wife,  who  has  a  diflScult  part  to  play  in  life,  and  gen- 
erally plays  it  remarkably  well.  At  the  same  time  I  do  not 
see  why  a  woman  of  Mrs.  Prentice's  natural  disposition,  whose 
life  is  so  much  concerned  with  the  externals  of  religion,  while 
she  has  little  or  no  grasp  of  its  essence,  should  not  develop  in 
the  way  I  have  indicated,  under  the  given  circumstances. 

Of  the  other  characters  in  the  story  none  is  an  actual 


PREFACE  ix 

portrait.  It  is  not  a  novelist's  business  to  draw  portraits, 
but  to  create  living  figures,  and  the  nearer  he  gets  to  the  first 
the  farther  ofF  will  he  be  from  the  second.  "  Exton  "  itself 
is  a  picture  as  close  as  I  could  make  it  of  an  actual  place.  I 
lived  there  for  three  years — at  the  White  House — and  I  have 
re-let  the  houses  of  my  friends,  so  to  speak,  to  the  people  of 
my  story.  If  that  is  a  liberty  it  is  the  only  one  I  have  taken. 
Exton,  or — to  throw  ofF  the  very  slight  disguise — Beaulieu,  in 
the  New  Forest,  is  much  visited,  and  though  you  may  be  able 
to  recognize  the  Abbey  and  the  Lodge  and  the  Street  House, 
if  you  go  there  in  the  summer,  you  will  not  come  across  Lady 
Wrotham,  or  the  Dales,  or  Mrs.  O'Keefe,  or  anybody  like 
them. 

Archibald  Marshall. 

The  Watch  House, 
Winchelsea, 
Sussex, 


CONTENTS 


CMAPTBR  MOB 

I.  TWO  BACHELORS  AND  SOME  LADIES      ...            I 

II.  AT  THE  WHITE  HOUSE        .            .            .            ,            .12 

III.  THE  VICARAGE 23 

IV.  LORD  WROTHAM 38 

V.  FRED  PRENTICE          .            .            .            •            .            '53 

VI.      GOOD  FRIDAY 68 

VII.  EASTER  SATURDAY  AND  SUNDAY            ...         85 

VIII.  A  PICNIC  AT  warren's  HARD    ....         96 

IX.      LADY  WROTHAM I08 

X.  A  SERVICE  AND  A  DINNER              .            .            .            .121 

XI.  A  PRELIMINARY  SKIRMISH            .            .            .            •133 

XII.       POURPARLERS I42 

XIII.  AN  UNEXPECTED  VISIT         .            .            .            •            •       '55 

XIV.      A    DISCLOSURE 1 67 

XV.      DISCORD 180 

XVI.  MRS.  PRENTICE  TASTES  SUCCESS              •            .            .       I9I 

XVII.      THE  VICAR .      2O9 

XVIII.  TURNER  AND  BROWNE  TAKE  SIDES      .            .            ,      220 

XIX.  RUMOUR,  AND  A  MEETING           ....       239 

XX.  A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY,  AND  WHAT  FOLLOWED         .       25O 

XXI.      TWO  VISITS ,  .      263 


XII 


CONTENTS 


XXII.  THREE  MEN  AND  A  LADY 

XXIII.  CHURCH,  AND  AFTER     . 

XXIV.  BROWNE  IS  PRECIPITATE 

XXV.  norah's  attempt 

XXVI.  ARRIVALS      . 

XXVII.  A  DINNER-PARTY  AT  FOREST  LODGE 

XXVIII.  A  VISIT  AND  A  CONVERSATION 

XXIX.  LADY  SYDE  HEARS  AND  ADVISES 

XXX.  VISITS 

XXXI.  THE  PICNIC  BREAKS  UP 

XXXII.  TROUBLES  AT  THE  VICARAGE 

XXXIII.  LADY  SYDE  INTERVENES 

XXXIV.  LORD  WROTHAM  PROPOSES     ,  . 
XXXV.  THE  SHADOW  OF  CHANGE 

XXXVI.  THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  THE  SHADOW    . 

XXXVII.  RECONCILIATION  .... 

XXXVIII.  NEW  year's  EVE  •  •  • 


278 
290 

320 

335 
347 
355 
365 
383 
393 
403 
415 
432 
443 
454 
465 
476 


EXTON  MANOR 

CHAPTER  I 

TWO    BACHELORS    AND    SOME    LADIES 

The  lights  of  Captain  Thomas  Turner's  dog-cart  shone  be 
tween  the  trees  of  the  woodland  ride,  stood  still  for  a  mo- 
ment at  the  gate,  advanced  a  pace  or  two,  stood  still  again 
as  the  gate  banged  to,  and  then  came  slowly  bumping  across 
the  rutty  grass  track  between  the  gorse  bushes  until  they 
reached  the  high  road.  Here  they  faced  to  the  right,  and 
were  borne  evenly  along  the  straight  quarter  mile  which  lay 
between  the  point  at  which  they  had  emerged  from  the  wood 
and  the  Upper  Heath  gate. 

Captain  Turner,  owing  to  the  number  of  years  he  had  lived 
alone  and  busied  himself  with  the  absorbing,  but  hardly  soci- 
able, occupation  of  breeding  trout,  had  contracted  the  habit 
of  thinking  aloud,  and  was  so  far  aware  of  his  infirmity  that 
he  had  permanently  relegated  his  groom  to  the  back  seat  of 
his  cart,  when  it  would  often  have  been  more  convenient  to 
have  him  seated  by  his  side.  This  precaution  did  not  com- 
pletely fulfill  its  object,  and  Robert  Kitcher,  the  groom,  was 
well  posted  up  in  the  various  currents  of  thought  that,  from 
time  to  time,  passed  through  his  master's  mind.  But  he  was 
a  middle-aged  bachelor  himself,  and,  while  turning  over  with 
interest  the  information  he  acquired  as  to  his  master's  ideas 
and  intentions,  he  imparted  it  to  no  one,  and  would,  indeed, 
have  considered  it  a  breach  of  confidence  to  do  so. 

The  detached  sentences  that  came  to  his  ears  during  this 

I 


2  EXTON  MANOR 

half-mile  drive,  cut  short  occasionally  by  cautious  tnutterings, 
lost,  too,  sometimes  in  the  gusts  of  March  wind  that  blew 
across  the  open  heath  to  their  left,  were  somewhat  as  follows : 

"  Now,  Thomas  Turner,  be  careful  to-night.  Don't  make 
a  fool  of  yourself.  You  don't  want  her.  You're  very  well 
as  you  are.  Let  Browne  ...  if  he's  fool  enough  to 
want  it  .  .  .  don't  know  when  he's  well  off.  You're 
forty-one,  Tom  Turner.  .  .  ."  Here  followed  a  subdued 
mutter,  and  after  that  a  sweep  of  wind,  which  lasted  for  some 
time.  When  it  had  died  down  again  the  current  of  thought 
seemed  to  have  set  in  another  direction,  for  the  next  sentence 
that  came  to  the  groom's  ears  was, "  Funny  thing,  the  two  old 
men  dying  together.  There'll  be.  .  .  .  Hate  changes. 
Wonder  what  Browne  has  heard  from  the  old  lady." 

They  arrived  at  the  Upper  Heath  gate,  which  Kitcher  got 
down  to  open,  and  drove  a  little  way  along  the  road  to  the 
right,  and  again  to  the  right  into  the  drive  which  led  to  the 
house  of  Turner's  friend,  Maximilian  Browne,  agent  to  the  ten 
thousand  acres  or  so  of  farm  and  forest  land  which  made  up 
the  estate  of  Exton  Manor. 

That  this  house  was  not  his  ultimate  objective  became 
apparent  from  the  fact  that,  when  he  drew  up  at  the  front 
door,  Kitcher  got  down  from  behind  and  rang  the  bell,  while 
Turner  sat  still  with  the  reins  in  his  hand,  and  addressed 
to  his  horse's  ears  the  remark,  "  Bound  to  keep  me  waiting. 
Confound  the  fellow  !  " 

The  door  was  opened  almost  immediately  by  an  elderly 
manservant,  who  said,  "  Mr.  Browne  has  only  just  got  back, 
sir.     He  told  me  to  ask  you  if  you  would  go  up  to  him." 

Turner  alighted,  and  went  into  the  house,  and  up-stairs  to 
his  friend's  bedroom,  where  he  found  that  gentleman  in  the 
very  early  stages  of  dressing  for  dinner. 

"  Now,  don't  swear,  old  man,"  said  Browne,  the  instant  he 
appeared  inside  the  door.     "  It's  all  right.     I  sent  a  wire  to 


TWO  BACHELORS  AND  SOME  LADIES  3 

Mrs.  Redcliffe,  asking  her  to  make  dinner  a  quarter  past  eight. 
We've  got  plenty  of  time." 

Turner  gave  a  grunt,  and  stationed  himself  in  front  of  the 
fire.  He  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  dark,  with  somewhat  pro- 
nounced features,  and  an  expression  that  bordered  on  melan- 
choly. This  first  impression,  caused  perhaps  by  a  droop  of 
the  eyes  and  of  the  corners  of  the  mouth,  was  lessened  by 
a  closer  inspection  of  the  face,  and  disappeared  when  the 
mouth  opened  to  emit  a  voice  that  was  grufF,  but  crisp  and 
decisive  in  speech,  and  anything  but  melancholy.  The  high 
shoulders  were  slightly  bent,  but  the  spare  frame  was  active 
and  well-knit.  The  hands  were  nervous,  the  fingers  long 
and  pointed.  The  forehead  was  high  and  narrow,  the  head, 
covered  with  straight,  dark  hair,  long. 

Maximilian  Browne  had  also  reached  the  age  of  forty ;  that 
age  at  which  life  ceases  to  be  lived  in  the  future,  and,  if  less 
ambitious  than  before,  becomes  a  quite  tolerable  affair  of  the 
present.  He  was  in  appearance  almost  the  complete  opposite 
of  his  friend.  He  was  of  about  the  middle  height,  and  in- 
clined to  corpulency ;  would,  indeed,  have  been  stout,  had 
not  a  life  of  incessant  open-air  activity  exercised  a  restraining 
influence  on  the  natural  tendency  of  his  body.  His  face  was 
large,  and  round  and  red,  and  his  thick  neck,  now  exposed  to 
the  gaze  of  the  beholder,  was  weathered  to  the  colour  of  brick- 
dust  by  sun  and  wind,  and  displayed  an  astonishing  contrast 
of  colour  to  the  white  skin  below  it.  His  straw-coloured  hair 
was  beginning  to  ebb  away  from  his  brow  and  the  top  of  his 
head.     His  moustache  was  red,  his  eyes  blue  and  mild. 

Turner,  from  his  vantage  ground  on  the  hearthrug,  bent  a 
searching  gaze  on  him  as  he  struggled  into  a  white,  starched 
shirt.     "  Any  news  ?  '*  he  asked  curtly. 

"  News  ?  Yes,"  replied  the  other.  "  Plenty  of  news, 
I've  had  the  deuce  of  a  time  with  her  ladyship.  She's  been 
hauling  me  over  the  coals  most  confoundedly.     She's — well,  1 


4  EXTON  MANOR 

don't  know  that  I  need  keep  it  to  myself;  she  didn't  tell  me 
to — she's  coming  to  live  here." 

"  Coming  to  live  here  ?     What,  at  the  Abbey  ?  *' 

"  Yes.     At  the  Abbey." 

Turner  gave  vent  to  a  long  whistle  of  surprise.  "Who 
would  have  thought  of  that  ?  "  he  said. 

*'  I'm  bound  to  say  I  never  did.  In  one  way  it's  a  relief. 
Ever  since  old  Sir  Joseph  died  I've  been  worrying  over  a 
tenant  for  the  place,  wondering  whether  I  should  get  anybody 
to  take  it  without  the  shooting.  It's  deuced  hard  to  let  a 
house  of  that  size  without  the  shooting,  and  Sir  Joseph  Chap- 
mans  don't  grow  on  every  tree.  That  difficulty's  over.  She's 
quite  content  to  let  the  Ferrabys  go  on  as  they  are  at  present. 
But — well.  Turner,  it's  no  use  disguising  the  fact  that  her 
ladyship's  going  to  upset  us.  Oh,  good  Lord !  why  can't  I 
be  allowed  to  live  a  quiet  life  ?  " 

He  threw  up  his  hands  in  a  comic  gesture  of  despair,  which 
seemed  to  relieve  his  overwrought  feelings. 

"What  has  she  been  hauling  you  over  the  coals  for?" 
asked  Turner. 

"  It  isn't  that  so  much.  My  position's  all  right.  I  never 
took  a  tenant  without  consulting  the  old  lord,  and,  as  far  as  I 
know,  she  never  showed  the  slightest  interest  in  anybody  or 
anything  to  do  with  this  place,  as  long  as  he  was  alive.  But 
now  she's  got  her  nose  into  everything,  and  nothing  and 
nobody's  right.  Mind,  this  don't  go  any  further.  I'm  only 
telling  you." 

**  Of  course.  It's  the  tenants  who  are  wrong,  is  it  ?  I 
don't  think  we're  such  a  bad  lot.  What's  the  matter  with 
this  particular  tenant  ?  " 

"  We  hardly  mentioned  you.  Of  course  you're  doing  some- 
thing on  the  place.  In  a  way  you  go  in  with  the  farming 
tenants,  and  she  don't  complain  of  them.  She  knows  nothing 
about  them.     It's  the  residents  she's  got  her  knife  into." 


TWO  BACHELORS  AND  SOME  LADIES         5 

"What's  the  matter  with  'em?  What's  the  matter  with 
the  Ferrabys  ?  " 

Browne  paused  in  the  act  of  fastening  his  braces  on  to  an 
ample  waistbelt,  and  composed  his  features  to  as  near  as  pos- 
sible an  imitation  of  an  elderly  lady  delivering  a  judgment. 
"  Worldly  people  !  "  he  said,  with  pursed-up  lips.  "  Cannot 
possibly  give  a  good  tone  to  the  place." 

*'They  give  jolly  good  dinners,"  commented  Turner. 
*'  Does  she  want  you  to  get  rid  of  them  ?  " 

"  No.  I  made  her  understand  that  they  didn't  give  any 
tone  to  the  place  at  all,  either  good  or  bad.  They  come  down 
for  a  month  in  August,  and  ofF  and  on  in  the  winter  to  shoot. 
They  bring  their  own  friends  with  them,  they  are  two  miles 
away  from  the  village,  and  hardly  anybody  sees  them  here  at 
all." 

"  You  and  I  see  a  good  deal  of  them  when  they're  here." 

"Yes.  I  didn't  tell  her  that.  Anyway,  they  don't  spoil 
our  tone  much.  So  we  left  it  at  that.  Then  she  began  about 
Prentice.  Was  he  high  or  low  ?  I  said  he  was  high.  I  sup- 
pose he  is,  isn't  he  ?  " 

"  As  high  as  he  dares  be." 

"Yes;  quite  so.  Well,  I  had  an  idea  she  was  high  herself, 
but  it  appears  I  was  wrong.  She's  low.  So  that  didn't  suit 
her,  and  Master  Prentice  may  look  out  for  squalls." 

"  How  about — about  our  friend  ?  " 

"iVirs.  Redcliffe?" 

«  Well,  Mrs.  RedclifFe." 

"  She  was  rather  odd  about  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  Shut  her  mouth 
up  tight,  and  gave  me  to  understand  she  knew  all  about  Mrs. 
Redcliffe." 

"  She  couldn't  know  anything  about  her  that  isn't  all  right." 

"  From  her  manner  you  would  have  said  she  did." 

"  Did  you  tell  her  she  was  an  Australian  ?  Some  people 
object  to  Australians." 


6  EXTON  MANOR 

"  She  knew  it.  So  I  suppose  she  does  know  something 
about  her.  You  know  the  old  lord  was  governor  of  a  colony 
out  there  years  ago." 

"  Yes.  Western  Australia.  But  Mrs.  Redcliffe  comes 
from  Queensland.  It's  as  far  as  from  here  to  Egypt.  Still, 
people  do  know  each  other  all  over  the  continent  out  there 
if  they  are  anybody,  and  Redcliffe  had  some  sort  of  a  govern- 
ment appointment.  I  dare  say  she  would  have  heard  of  them. 
Still,  I  refuse  to  believe  that  she  heard  anything  that  wasn't 
all  right." 

"So  do  I.  Still,  it  didn't  look  as  if  she  was  going  to  open 
her  arms  to  her.     Then  there  was  Mrs.  O'Keefe." 

«  Ah  !     Well,  what  about  Mrs.  O'Keefe  ?  " 

"  I  got  really  annoyed  with  her  over  that."  Browne  was 
now  buttoning  his  waistcoat,  and  paused  again  to  draw  him- 
self up  into  an  attitude  of  inquiry,  his  large  round  head  poised 
ludicrously  aslant,  and  his  red  lips  pursed.  " '  And  who  may 
Mrs.  O'Keefe  be  ? '  I  told  her  who  she  was.  '  Her  hus- 
band was  a  brother  of  Lord  Ballyshannon,'  I  said.  '  He  died 
about  a  year  ago,  and  she  took  Street  House  soon  afterwards.' 
*  Lord  Ballyshannon,'  she  said.  'Never  heard  of  him.'  I 
hadn't  either,  till  Mrs.  O'Keefe  came  here,  so  I  didn't  say 
anything.  Then  she  snapped  out, '  How  old  is  she  ? '  I  said, 
*I  should  think  about  twenty-five.'" 

"She  isn't,"  interpolated  Turner,  with  a  trace  of  indigna- 
tion.    "  She's  only  just  twenty-three." 

"  Well,  I  didn't  want  to  give  her  away.  Her  ladyship 
looked  at  me  with  a  sort  of  searching  eye.  '  A  young 
widow,'  she  said.  *  A  beautiful  young  widow,  I  suppose,  Mr. 
Browne.' " 

"  Got  you  there,  Maximilian,"  chuckled  Turner.  "  I  sup- 
pose you  blushed  beetroot." 

"  I  didn't  do  anything  of  the  sort.     I  was  very  annoyed.** 

"  Well,  what  did  you  say  ?  " 


TWO  BACHELORS  AND  SOME  LADIES         7 

"  I  didn't  say  anything." 

"Then  of  course  you  blushed." 

"  I  tell  ou  I  didn't.  Why  should  I  ?  Then  she  had  the 
cheek  to  say,  '  I  believe  you  let  the  Street  House  for  ten 
pounds  a  year  less  than  you  got  from  the  last  tenant,  Mr. 
Browne  ? '  *■  Yes,  Lady  Wrotham,'  I  said  ;  '  I  did.  I  ex- 
ercised my  discretion,  and  Lord  Wrotham  approved  of  whai 
I'd  done.' " 

Turner  chuckled  again  in  acute  enjoyment.  "  Virtuous  in- 
dignation," he  said.  "  The  old  lady's  got  sharp  eyes.  You'll 
have  to  go  slow  in  your  wooing,  Maximilian,  when  she  comes 
on  the  scene." 

"  My  wooing !  What  nonsense  are  you  up  to  ?  You 
know  very  well  who's  doing  the  wooing  in  that  quarter.  I 
should  be  ashamed  of  myself  if  I  had  any  idea  of  a  woman 
twenty  years  younger  than  myself.  Not  that  I  blame  you  for 
it.  I  was  only  saying  to  myself  as  I  drove  up,  I  hoped  you'd 
fix  it  up  pretty  soon,  as  you  seem  bent  on  it.  You  needn't 
have  any  fear  of  my  cutting  in." 

"  Ah,  it's  all  very  well  to  talk  like  that.  The  old  lady 
knew  what  she  was  about  when  she  put  that  leading  ques- 
tion. No,  Maximilian  ;  you  don't  work  it  off  on  me.  I'm 
a  great  admirer  of  the  lady.  I  don't  deny  it.  But  as  for 
wanting  to  be  anything  closer,  it  has  never  so  much  as 
entered  my  mind.  I'll  be  your  best  man  if  you'll  have  me, 
and  give  you  a  silver  tea-service,  the  best  that  money  can  buy. 
Only  have  the  wedding  at  some  time  when  I'm  not  busy  with 
the  fish.     That's  all  I  ask." 

"You're  talking  through  your  hat.  Turner,  and  no  one 
knows  that  better  than  you.  It  is  my  pocket  the  money  will 
come  out  of  for  the  silver  tea-service,  and  you'll  be  welcome 
to  it.     I'm  ready.     Go  on  first,  and  I'll  turn  out  the  light." 

The  two  friends,  in  the  best  of  humours  with  one  another 
in  spite  of  their  sparring,  got   into  the  cart  and  drove  out 


8  EXTON  MANOR 

through  the  gate  and  down  the  hill  between  the  leafless  trees 
on  either  side  of  the  road,  whose  branches  were  tossing  in  the 
March  wind  under  the  light  of  a  struggling  moon.  At  the 
bottom  of  the  hill  they  came  to  another  white  gate,  which 
opened  into  a  short  drive  leading  to  the  door  of  a  low,  white 
house,  standing  in  a  large  garden,  where  they  alighted,  and 
were  presently  admitted  into  the  warm  interior. 

The  house  was  an  enlarged  cottage,  delightfully  trans- 
formed. They  went  from  a  red-tiled  hall  into  a  low  oak- 
raftered  sitting-room,  full  of  unexpected  corners,  with  a  large 
bay  window  and  half-glazed  doors  opening  into  the  garden. 
The  gay  chintzes  of  the  chairs  and  window  curtains  gave 
brightness  to  the  room,  and  the  many  books  interest.  A  deep 
sofa  faced  the  fire  burning  in  a  grate  of  brick  surmounted  by  oak 
panelling.  The  glow  of  the  lamp  and  the  many  candles  with 
which  the  room  was  lighted  fell  softly  on  china,  silver,  and 
old  brass,  and  gave  an  air  of  warmth  and  comfort  to  a  charm- 
ing interior.  It  was  a  woman's  room  in  which  a  man  could 
feel  at  home,  and  Browne  and  Turner  came  into  it,  out  of  the 
cold  March  night,  with  a  sense  of  gratification.  They  were 
alone  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then  a  door  leading  out  of  the 
room  straight  on  to  a  little  cottage  staircase  opened,  and  their 
hostess  came  in,  followed  by  her  daughter. 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  was  a  woman  of  perhaps  five  and  forty,  of  a 
square,  middle-sized  figure.  Her  hair  was  plentiful,  but  con- 
spicuously grey,  with  white  locks  springing  from  her  temples. 
Her  face  was  pleasant  and  intelligent,  quite  free  from  care, 
and  the  grip  of  her  plump,  white  hand  gave  an  impression  of 
firmness,  and  not  a  little  warmth  of  character.  The  greeting 
between  her  and  the  two  men  was  that  of  old  friends,  cordial, 
but  without  effusion. 

It  is  not  so  easy  to  convey  an  impression  of  Hilda  Redcliffe. 
She  was  at  this  time  a  few  months  short  of  twenty-one,  and 
had  all  the  grace  and  charm  of  fresh  girlhood.     But  she  had 


TWO  BACHELORS  AND  SOME  LADIES         9 

something  more.  She  had,  if  not  actual  beauty,  for  her 
features  were  perhaps  too  irregular  for  that,  a  face  that  would 
have  attracted  attention  anywhere.  If  you  looked  first  at  the 
great  masses  of  brown  hair  which  shaded  her  brow,  and  then 
at  her  brown,  honest  eyes,  fringed  with  long  lashes,  you  said 
to  yourself  that  she  was  certainly  beautiful.  Then  when  you 
took  in  the  rest  of  the  face,  the  short  nose  without  special 
feature,  the  mouth  too  irregular  for  perfect  symmetry,  the 
decisively  jutting  chin,  you  were  not  quite  so  sure.  But  if 
she  smiled,  away  flew  your  doubts  again,  for  the  two  little 
rows  of  teeth  were  entrancing,  and  the  smile  revealed  some 
of  the  charm  of  her  frank  and  loyal  nature.  It  was  a  face 
whose  attractions  would  grow  upon  you,  and,  if  you  were  of 
an  age  and  condition  to  fall  in  love  with  its  owner,  might  very 
well  come  to  be  considered  beautiful,  and  something  more. 
For  the  rest,  she  was  half  a  head  taller  than  her  mother,  and 
held  herself  straight,  walking  with  the  grace  and  ease  of  a 
young  girl  whose  activities  are  concerned  with  the  life  of  the 
open  air,  summer  or  winter,  rain  or  shine.  She  also  received 
the  two  men  with  an  air  of  comradeship,  and  unconsciously 
emphasized  the  number  of  years  that  had  passed  over  their 
bachelorhood  by  the  freshness  of  her  slim  youth. 

There  was  no  time  for  more  than  a  few  words  of  greeting, 
for  immediately  after  the  entrance  of  mother  and  daughter 
the  door  by  which  the  two  men  had  entered  the  room 
opened,  and  Mrs.  O'Keefe  was  announced. 

Whatever  doubt  might  have  been  felt  at  first  sight  as  to 
the  beauty  of  Hilda  RedclifFe,  there  could  be  none  about  that 
of  Norah  O'Keefe.  She  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  white- 
panelled  and  balustraded  recess  which  gave  entrance  to  the 
room,  and  was  raised  a  step  above  it,  and  the  eyes  of  the 
four  were  drawn  towards  her  in  irresistible  admiration.  All 
the  grace  of  early  womanhood  seemed  to  be  gathered  up  in 
her  tall,  black-gowned  form,  to  which  the  whiteness  of  hef 


10  EXTON  MANOR 

throat  and  neck  formed  a  contrast  almost  startling,  unre- 
lieved as  her  dress  was  by  a  touch  of  white.  Her  dark  eyes 
were  deep-set  in  a  face  of  perfect  oval,  and  her  head,  crowned 
with  waving  masses  of  dark  hair,  was  poised  lightly  on  the 
slender  column  of  her  neck.  She  wore  a  jewel  in  her  hair, 
and  a  necklace  of  uncut  emeralds.  It  is  difficult  to  describe 
actual  beauty.  As  compared  with  that  of  Hilda  RedclifFe, 
although  she  was  but  little  older,  Norah  O'Keefe's  was  the 
charm  of  a  woman,  and  not  of  a  girl.  When  it  has  been  said 
that  her  charm  lay  not  wholly  in  her  beauty,  and  that  it  was 
as  apparent  to  women  as  to  men,  perhaps  more  has  been  told 
than  could  be  conveyed  in  pages  of  analysis  and  description. 

"  My  dear  Norah,"  said  Mrs.  Redcliffe,  going  forward 
to  greet  her.  "  I  am  so  pleased  to  see  you.  I  hope  you 
didn't  mind  being  put  off  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  How  did 
you  come  up  ?  " 

"  I  walked,  of  course,"  she  replied,  shaking  hands  with 
Browne  and  Turner,  and  smiling  impartially  upon  each  of 
them.  "There  is  a  moon,  and  I  didn't  have  to  bring  a 
lantern.  My  faithful  Bridget  will  come  and  fetch  me  at 
half-past  ten,  and  I  shall  walk  back  again." 

"No,  I  shall  drive  you  down,"  said  Turner  gallantly. 
"You  and  Bridget  too.     There  will  be  room  for  all  four." 

"  A  walk  on  a  night  like  this  is  very  pleasant,"  put  in 
Browne.     "Let  me  take  you  home,  Mrs.  O'Keefe." 

She  laughed  gaily.  *'  I  shouldn't  think  of  taking  you 
quite  in  the  opposite  direction  from  that  in  which  you  have 
to  go,"  she  said.  "  And  how  would  you  like  to  walk  between 
me  and  Bridget  ?  Thank  you  very  much  all  the  same,  Mr. 
Browne." 

"  Indeed,  I  don't  mind  a  walk  on  a  night  like  this.  I  like 
it,"  he  replied,  with  an  eager  expression  on  his  round,  red 
face. 

"  Then  you  won't    mind  walking    up   to   Upper  Heath,'* 


TWO  BACHELORS  AND  SOME  LADIES        ii 

said  Turner.     "  I'll  drive  Mrs.  O'Keefe  down,  and  go  home 
through  the  wood." 

"  Well,  we  needn't  settle  about  going  home  yet 
awhile,"  said  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  "Let  us  go  in.  Dinner  is 
ready." 


CHAPTER  11 

AT   THE    WHITE    HOUSE 

They  went  in  singly  to  the  little  square  dining-room,  and 
arranged  themselves  at  a  round  table.  A  subsurface  and 
quite  seemly  struggle  between  Browne  and  Turner  as  to 
which  of  them  should  sit  next  to  Norah  O'Keefe  was  decided 
by  superior  strategy  in  favour  of  the  former,  but  the  small- 
ness  of  the  company  robbed  Turner's  defeat  of  most  of  its 
sting. 

"  You  have  been  to  Hurstbury  Court,"  said  Mrs.  RedclifFe 
to  Browne,  when  they  had  settled  themselves  in  their  places. 
"  Have  you  any  interesting  news  to  tell  us  ?  How  is  Lady 
Wrotham  bearing  her  loss  ?  " 

"  Wonderful  woman !  "  said  Browne,  with  a  side  glance 
at  the  parlourmaid.  "  Simply  full  of  energy,  and  beginning 
her  life  all  over  again  as  if  she  thoroughly  enjoyed  it." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  "  she  was  nearly  twenty 
years  younger  than  Lord  Wrotham,  and  an  energetic  woman 
always.     So  one  heard,  for  I  have  never  seen  her." 

A  remembrance  came  to  Browne's  mind.  "  Didn't  you 
ever  see  her  when  the  old  lord  was  Governor  of  Western 
Australia  ?  "  he  asked. 

''  No,  never,"  she  replied.  "  That  was  many  years  ago, 
and  I  was  quite  a  girl.  Besides,  Queensland  and  Western 
Australia  are  a  very  long  distance  apart.  I  was  never  in 
Western  Australia,  and  I  do  not  think  that  Lord  and  Lady 
Wrotham  were  ever  in  Queensland.  I  have  no  recollection 
of  it  if  they  were." 

She  spoke  in  her  usual  placid,  rather  deliberate  manner. 
Browne  glanced  at  her  quiet,  sensible  face,  unclouded  by  a 

13 


AT  THE  WHITE  HOUSE  13 

hint  of  disturbance,  and  decided  that  he  must  have  mistaken 
Lady  Wrotham's  meaning  when  she  told  him  that  she  knew 
all  about  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  It  was  impossible  to  connect  her 
with  the  remotest  shadow  of  a  scandal — a  scandal,  that  is,  ui 
which  she  could  have  been  in  the  least  to  blame. 

"  You  have  been  here  five  years,  haven't  you,  Mrs.  Red- 
clifFe?" asked  Norah  O'Keefe.  "Hasn't  Lady  Wrotham 
ever  been  to  Exton  in  that  time  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  and  Browne  added,  "  She  told 
me  that  she  had  not  been  here  for  five  and  twenty  years. 
That  was  just  after  Sir  Joseph  had  practically  rebuilt  the 
Abbey.  She  said  that  she  thought  he  had  completely  spoilt 
it,  and  she  had  never  had  the  slightest  wish  to  see  it  again." 

"Spoilt  it!"  exclaimed  Hilda.  "Why,  it  is  perfectly 
beautiful  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Browne.  *'  But,  you  see,  she  came  when  it 
was  only  just  finished.  Everything  was  new  and  staring. 
I  really  hardly  recognized  the  description  she  gave  me  of  it, 
but  I  can  see  it  to  a  certain  extent  with  her  eyes.  The 
garden  was  brand  new;  twelve  acres,  or  more,  just  planted. 
We  know  it  after  five  and  twenty  years*  growth,  but  in 
those  days  it  can't  have  been  very  interesting.  And  the  new 
part  of  the  house  hadn't  toned  down  to  look  of  a  piece  with 
the  old,  as  it  has  now.  She  spent  her  honeymoon  there. 
The  house  must  have  been  very  uncomfortable,  only  half- 
furnished  ;  but  there  it  was,  with  all  its  surroundings,  just  as 
it  had  been  built  after  the  Reformation,  when  most  of  the 
monastery  had  been  pulled  down.  She  will  find  it  very 
difFerent  now." 

"  Is  she  coming  to  see  it,  then  ? "  asked  Mrs.  RedclifFe. 

"  H'm,  ha !  "  muttered  Browne,  recollecting  the  parlour- 
maid. "  I  expect  she  and  Kemsing — I  mean  Lord  Wrotham 
— will  be  down  to  have  a  look  at  us  before  long." 

"  Poor  old  Sir  Joseph ! "  said  Mrs.  RedclifFe.     "  What  a 


14  EXTON  MANOR 

pride  he  took  in  the  place  !  It  was  a  delight  to  go  pottering 
round  with  him.  I  am  sure  he  never  thought  of  it  as  other- 
wise than  his  own." 

"  I  really  don't  think  he  did,"  said  Browne.  "  He  spent 
money  on  it  just  as  if  it  belonged  td  him,  and,  in  a  way,  he 
has  made  it." 

"Sir  Joseph  Chapman  made  the  house,  and  Maximilian 
Browne  made  the  estate,"  said  Turner.  "  Honour  where 
honour  is  due." 

Browne's  round  face  was  suffused  with  a  deprecatory  smile. 
"  I  have  pulled  it  round  a  bit,"  he  said.  *'  It's  quite  true. 
All  the  farms  are  let  now,  and  as  for  the  private  houses — 
well,  Fm  quite  satisfied  with  the  tenants  we've  got."  He 
looked  round  the  table  with  a  congratulatory  air,  finishing  up 
with  a  side  look  at  the  tenant  of  the  Street  House,  just  long 
enough  to  turn  a  general  compliment  into  a  particular  one. 

Norah  O'Keefe,  however,  seemed  blissfully  unconscious  of 
it.  "  I  hope  the  new  Lord  Wrotham  is  pleased  with  the 
result  of  your  labours,"  she  raid;  "yours  and  Sir  Joseph's. 
He  has  reason  to  be." 

"  Oh,  he's  pleased  enough,"  said  Browne. 

*'  And  have  you  got  a  new  tenant  for  the  Abbey  yet  ?  '* 
asked  Hilda.  *'  It  will  be  rather  an  excitement  to  us,  but  we 
shall  be  very  hard  to  please  after  dear  old  Sir  Joseph." 

The  maid  had  now  left  the  room,  Browne  gave  vent  to 
a  premonitory  cough,  and  said,  "  Well,  the  fact  is  that  Lady 
Wrotham  is  coming  to  live  here  herself." 

There  was  a  general  exclamation  from  all  except  Turner. 
Browne  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  enjoyed  the  commotion 
he  had  raised.  It  was  at  this  moment  that  recollection  came 
to  Turner.  Three  pairs  of  feminine  eyes  were  bent  upon 
Browne's  rubicund  visage.  Turner's  turned  with  some  curi- 
osity on  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  Her  face  was  as  interested  as  that 
of  her  daughter,  or  Mrs,  O'Keefe      There  was  no  trace  of 


AT  THE  WHITE  HOUSE  15 

any  other  expression  on  it.  Like  his  friend.  Turner  dis« 
missed  from  his  mind  once  and  for  «J1  any  suspicion  that 
there  was  anything  Lady  Wrotham  could  know  about  Mrs. 
Redcliffe  that  she  would  wish  to  be  hidden. 

"  Now  that  we  have  heard  that  important  piece  of  news,** 
said  Norah  O'Keefe,  when  the  first  expression  of  surprise  had 
died  down,  "  we  want  to  hear  more  about  Lady  Wrotham 
herself.  None  of  us  know  her.  If  she  is  going  to  be  our 
new  neighbour,  we  want  to  know  what  she  is  like." 

"  You'll  like  her,"  said  Browne  loyally.  The  disturbance 
of  mind  he  had  admitted  to  Turner  was  not  to  be  disclosed 
to  any  one  else,  not  even  to  these  three  ladies  with  whom  he 
lived  on  terms  of  considerable  intimacy.  "You'll  like  her. 
She  is  a  wonderful  woman.  Full  of  energy — and  of  good 
works.     She'll  take  the  lead." 

Mrs.  O'Keefe  made  a  slight  grimace.  "Will  she  take  the 
lead  of  all  of  us  ?  "  she  asked.  "That  looks  rather  as  if  our 
pleasant  little  society  will  be  altered.  None  of  us  take  the 
lead  now.     We  are  a  small  and  very  contented  republic." 

"Even  old  Sir  Joseph  was  one  of  us,"  said  Hilda.  "He 
would  come  in  and  out  just  as  he  liked,  and  if  we  wanted  to 
see  him  we  went  to  the  Abbey,  and  were  always  sure  of  a 
welcome.  I  suppose  that  will  all  be  altered  now,  and  we  shall 
have  to  wait  till  we're  sent  for." 

"  There  is  one  among  us,"  said  Turner  dryly,  "  who  is  quite 
ready  to  take  the  lead." 

Mrs.  Redcliffe  turned  a  reproving  face  on  him.  "  Now 
you  know  that  is  not  allowed,"  she  said.  "  We  all  get  on 
very  well  together,  and  there  is  not  one  of  our  neighbours  thar 
we  are  not  always  pleased  to  see — all  of  us." 

"  Please  make  an  exception  in  my  case,"  said  Turner, 
unabashed. 

"  As  long  as  we  behave  ourselves  we  are  treated  with 
favour,"  said  Norah  O'Keefe. 


i6  EXTON  MANOR 

*'  And  gracious  condescension,"  added  Hilda. 

Browne's  broad  face  showed  some  bewilderment.  He  wsu 
not  at  his  ease  with  ellipsis.  "I  suppose  you  mean  Mrs. 
Prentice,"  he  said.  "  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I'm  afraid  there 
may  be  a  little  friction  between  Lady  Wrotham  and  Mrs. 
Prentice  at  first,  though  I  shouldn't  like  it  to  be  known  that  I 
said  so.  Her  ladyship  asked  me  a  lot  about  the  condition  of 
the  villagers.  She  means  to  take  an  active  interest  in  them, 
as  she  does  in  the  property  at  Hurstbury.  Yesi  I'm  half 
afraid  there  may  be  a  little  friction." 

"There'll  be  no  friction,"  said  Turner.  "The  lady  in 
question  will  drop  milk  and  honey  in  her  talk,  and  all  will  be 
sweetness  and  submission." 

"  Now  I  can't  have  any  more  of  this,"  said  Mrs.  RedclifFe 
decisively.     "  At  this  table  we  criticize  nobody." 

"  Dear  Mrs.  RedclifFe,"  said  Norah  affectionately,  "  if  all 
the  world  were  as  charitable  as  you,  it  would  be  a  pleasanter 
place  to  live  in." 

*'  It  would  be  a  much  worse  place  if  we  were  all  to  give 
rein  to  our  tongues  in  criticizing  our  neighbours,"  said 
Mrs.  Redcliffe.  "  But  tell  us  more  about  Lady  Wrotham, 
Mr.  Browne.     We  have  not  heard  half  enough  yet." 

But  the  entrance  of  the  maid  put  a  stop  to  further  con- 
fidences for  the  time  being,  and,  although  the  subject  was 
returned  to  and  discussed  in  all  its  bearings  at  intervals  during 
the  progress  of  the  meal  and  later  on  in  the  evening,  the  con- 
versation need  not  be  further  recorded. 

The  four  elders  played  a  rubber  of  Bridge  after  dinner,  over 
which  Turner  was  didactic,  Browne  sleepy  and  rather  stupid, 
Mrs.  O'Keefe  erratic  but  charmingly  apologetic,  and  Mrs. 
Redcliffe  quietly  capable.  It  was  not  a  very  rigorous  game, 
and  there  was  more  general  conversation  in  its  intervals  than 
would  be  looked  upon  with  favour  at  the  Portland  Club,  but 
it  was  enjoyed  by  those  who  took  part  in  it  and  were  accus« 


AT  THE  WHITE  HOUSE  17 

tomed  to  fill  up  their  sociable  evenings  in  this  manner.  Hilda 
amused  herself  with  the  piano,  and  occasionally  came  to  the 
table  to  look  over  her  mother's  hand,  or  that  of  Norah 
O'Keefe,  and  to  give  her  opinion  of  the  play  when  the  hand 
was  over. 

It  was  a  scene  that  would  have  pleased  an  observer — the 
little  group  of  friends,  so  dissimilar,  and  yet  at  ease  and  con- 
tented with  one  another ;  the  play  of  face  and  gesture  over 
the  game,  and  the  little  spurts  of  talk  between  whiles;  the 
bright,  comfortable  room  set  in  the  warm  heart  of  the 
country,  now  dead  still  in  the  quiet  night,  but  homely  in  the 
sense  of  its  closeness  to  the  human  dwellings  it  enwrapped. 
Nowhere  is  there  to  be  found  so  complete  a  feeling  of  pro- 
tection and  neighbourliness  as  about  a  house  in  the  country 
within  reach  of  a  village,  even  if  no  other  human  dwelling 
can  be  seen  from  its  windows.  The  crowded  proximity  of 
a  town  affords  little  to  compare  with  it.  The  lives  of  the 
town  dweller's  nearest  neighbours  are  of  no  interest  to  him  ; 
perhaps  their  very  faces  are  unknown.  Scattered  about  the 
great  city  he  has  many  friends,  but  they  are  divided  from 
him  by  more  than  mere  distance.  He  finds  delight  in  his 
own  hearthstone,  but  it  is  isolated.  Let  him  shut  the  door 
on  its  warmth,  and  he  is  cut  off  from  it  completely ;  he  is 
in  another  world.  Its  rays  strike  no  further  than  the  walls  of 
his  house.  But  if  you  shut  the  door  for  a  moment  on  such 
a  room  as  the  parlour  in  the  White  House,  and  stand  outside 
under  the  stars,  the  very  silence  of  the  night  brings  com- 
panionable thoughts.  The  brain  is  soothed  by  the  stillness, 
and  you  know  that  not  very  far  ofF  are  the  houses,  not  of 
strangers,  but  of  your  neighbours,  whose  lives  are  near  to 
you,  although  you  may  know  very  few  of  them.  And  your 
own  house  has  a  personality,  partly  its  own,  partly  the  echo 
of  yours.  It  is  familiar  to  every  one  of  those  who  are  living 
near  you.     It  has  its  place  in  the  picture  of  their  surround- 


i8  EXTON  MANOR 

ings,  which  exists  as  a  background  to  all  their  thoughts. 
Some  of  them  have  had  it  before  them  to-night  as  they 
have  sat  and  talked  round  their  own  fires.  Some  of  them 
have  it  before  them  now  as  you  stand  there.  It  is  a  con- 
stant and  living  part  of  their  experience.  And  so  there  i* 
both  the  grateful  retirement  and  the  sense  of  being  close 
to  the  heart  of  human  life.  What  is  there  to  compare  with 
this  about  a  house  in  a  terrace,  or  a  street,  surrounded  by  alien 
life,  completely  negligible  to  the  thoughts  of  those  dwelling 
near  it,  or  passing  to  and  fro  ? 

Mrs.  O'Keefe's  Irish  maid  arrived  at  half-past  ten,  and 
Turner's  groom  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later.  There  was  a 
little  bustle  of  departure,  and  Turner  drove  off  down  to  the 
village  with  Norah  sitting  beside  him,  and  Bridget  and 
Robert  Kitcher  in  company  on  the  back  seat.  Nothing  much 
was  said  between  the  lady  and  gentleman  during  the  short 
drive  to  the  house  in  the  village  street  at  which  the  lady 
and  her  maid  alighted,  nothing  at  all  that  provided  any 
interest  for  the  pair  who  overheard  It,  but  Turner's  mind 
was  full  of  a  sardonic  triumph.  As  he  drove  back  again 
past  the  inn  and  the  mill,  across  the  bridge,  past  the  Abbey 
gate  and  buildings,  and  across  the  little  stretch  of  park  which 
lay  between  them  and  the  wood  in  which  his  own  house  lay, 
two  miles  distant  from  the  village,  he  chuckled  at  intervals  to 
himself  as  he  thought  of  Browne  trudging  up  the  hill  to 
Upper  Heath  House  in  his  pumps,  and  pictured  the  muttered 
wrath  of  his  rival  at  his  own  success  in  manoeuvring  a  five 
minutes'  tete-a-tete  with  the  lady.  ''  That's  one  to  you, 
Thomas,"  he  said  aloud  to  the  birds  of  night  and  to  Robert 
Kitcher,  sitting  in  respectful  sympathy  behind  him  ;  and 
again,  "  Poor  old  Maximilian,  he  hasn't  got  a  look  in. 
Thought  he  was  very  smart  putting  himself  next  to  her  at 
dinner.  But  she  didn't  look  at  him  once.  Ha,  ha  !  You 
may  put  up  your  shutters,  Mr.  Browne." 


AT  THE  WHITE  HOUSE  19 

When  he  had  passed  through  the  gate  which  enclosed  the 
Abbey  precincts,  and  that  which  gave  entrance  to  the  wood- 
land road  which  he  now  had  to  follow,  he  fell  silent  for  a 
time,  and  when  he  spoke  again  the  current  of  his  thoughts 
had  changed.  "  I  wonder  if  there's  a  good  lot  in  this  box," 
he  said.  "  The  last  was  poor."  And  then,  "  There's  one 
of  Anthony  Hope's,  anyhow.     I  saw  it  announced." 

Presently  they  came  out  of  the  wood  into  a  clearing,  in 
which  stood  a  white,  verandahed  house,  looking  down  a 
gently  sloping  valley.  The  wind  had  dropped,  and  the  night 
was  full  of  the  tinkle  of  running  water.  Stretching  down 
the  valley  was  Turner's  chain  of  fish  tanks,  with  streams, 
ditches,  sluices,  gates,  and  everything  ingeniously  ordered  for 
the  benefit  of  the  industry  to  which  he  devoted  his  attention. 
The  moon  now  rode  high,  and,  as  he  turned  for  a  moment 
to  survey  his  little  kingdom  before  entering  the  house,  shone 
on  the  roofs  of  the  huts  scattered  about  at  the  head  of  the 
valley,  on  squares  and  oblongs  and  lines  of  water,  dwindling 
in  size  until  they  were  lost  in  the  gloom  of  the  surrounding 
trees.  The  scene  had  something  strange  in  it.  It  might 
have  reminded  a  traveller  of  something  he  had  seen  in  out-of- 
the-way  parts  of  the  world,  where  men  carry  on  unfamiliar 
operations  in  the  depths  of  bush,  or  scrub,  or  jungle.  But 
there  was  nothing  strange  in  it  to  Turner,  and,  with  a  mere 
turn  of  the  head,  he  passed  into  the  house,  while  Kitcher, 
.vith  no  glance  at  all,  led  his  horse  round  to  the  stable. 

The  room  which  Turner  entered  when  he  had  hung  up  his 
coat  and  hat  was  attractive  enough,  although  furnished  with- 
out any  regard  to  modern  notions  of  aesthetics.  It  was 
attractive  because  of  its  extreme  air  of  comfort.  The  easy- 
chairs  in  front  of  the  fire  were  of  the  deepest,  the  Turkey 
carpet  was  as  thick  a  one  as  could  be  bought  for  money,  and 
its  somewhat  crude  colours,  finding  nothing  in  the  room  to 
clash  with,    only    added    to    its    brightness.     The  room  was 


io  EXTON  MANOR 

lighted  by  a  bay  window,  which  was  now  thickly  curtained 
by  warm-coloured  hangings.  A  table  stood  in  this  window, 
on  which  was  a  spirit  tantalus,  glasses,  mineral  water,  and 
a  lemon  squeezer  containing  a  lemon  ready  to  be  operated 
upon.  A  copper  kettle  buzzed  on  the  hob  of  the  hearth,  in 
which  the  fire  glowed  invitingly.  By  the  side  of  one  of  the 
great,  old  easy-chairs  stood  another  table,  upon  which  was 
a  green-shaded  reading  lamp,  a  paper-knife,  a  large  tobacco 
jar,  and  half-a-dozen  seasoned  briar  pipes.  A  black  spaniel 
lay  on  the  hearthrug,  and  wagged  a  welcoming  stump  as  his 
master  entered  the  room,  watching  out  of  the  corner  of  a 
liquid  brown  eye  for  a  sign  as  to  whether  it  would  be  ex- 
pected of  him  to  disturb  his  ease  to  the  extent  of  rising  to  offer 
a  greeting. 

But  a  stranger  coming  into  the  room  would  have  looked 
first  at  none  of  these  things.  His  eye  would  have  been  caught 
by  the  rows  and  rows  of  books  which  lined  two  of  the  walls 
from  floor  to  ceiling.  Many  books  are  not  an  unusual  ap- 
panage to  a  room  of  this  sort,  and  the  best  way  to  house  them 
is  in  fixed,  open  shelves.  But  these  books  and  shelves  were 
decidedly  unusual.  The  shelves  were  all  of  one  size,  and  the 
books  were  nearly  of  a  size  too,  and  most  of  them  in  bright 
bindings.  A  closer  inspection,  of  the  most  cursory,  would 
have  revealed  the  fact  that  they  were  all  novels,  of  the  sort 
that  is  issued  in  great  numbers  every  year,  and  sold  at  the 
price  of  six  shillings,  or  four  and  sixpence  with  the  usual  dis- 
count. The  total  number  on  Turner's  shelves  must  have 
reached  four  figures,  and  very  curious  they  looked  in  their 
long,  unbroken  ranks,  not  at  all  like  the  books  of  an  ordinary 
library.  In  the  middle  of  the  floor  stood  a  good-sized  box, 
from  which  the  lid  had  been  removed.  This,  also,  was  full 
of  books.  Turner  took  them  out  and  arranged  them  on  an- 
other table  which  stood  by  the  door,  reading  the  lettering  on 
the  cover  of  each  one  as  he  did  so.     They  had  not  come  from 


AT  THE  WHITE  HOUSE  ll 

a  circulating  library,  but  from  a  bookseller,  and  all  of  them 
were  new,  as  they  had  left  the  binders.  There  were  between 
twenty  and  thirty  of  them,  and  their  owner  looked  at  them 
with  satisfaction.  *'  It's  a  good  week,"  he  said,  as  he  put  the 
last  in  its  place  by  the  others.  "  We're  getting  into  the  thick 
of  the  season  now." 

He  went  up-stairs  to  his  bedroom,  and  returned  a  few 
minutes  later.  He  had  taken  off  his  collar  and  tie,  and  his 
tall  form  looked  odd  and  old-fashioned  in  an  ancient  Paisley 
shawl  dressing-gown,  with  a  pair  of  worked  slippers  just  as 
ancient  beneath  it.  He  went  up  to  the  line  of  books  on  the 
table  and  selected  one,  which  he  put  by  the  reading-lamp. 
"  Don't  care  about  anything  hot  to-night,"  he  said,  as  he  went 
to  the  other  table,  and  mixed  whisky  and  soda  in  a  long  glass. 
The  old  dog  in  front  of  the  fire  wagged  his  stump  of  a  tail 
sleepily,  thinking  himself  addressed. 

Turner  stood  in  front  of  the  fire  while  he  carefully  filled 
a  pipe  out  of  the  big  tobacco  jar,  and  surveyed  his  orderly 
book-shelves  with  a  look  of  gratification.  Then  his  face  be- 
came reflective.  "  No,  it  would  never  do,"  he  burst  out  at 
last.  "  Never  do.  First  thing  that  would  happen — this 
would  be  knocked  off.  You're  very  well  ofF,  Thomas 
Turner.  Don't  make  a  fool  of  yourself."  Then  he  lit  his 
pipe,  and  said  between  the  pufFs,  "  Maximilian — Browne — 
very  lucky — fellow." 

Turner  was  now  prepared  for  his  night's  debauch.  He  put 
some  logs  of  wood  and  a  shovelful  of  coal  on  to  the  fire,  took 
a  large,  fat  cushion  from  the  easy-chair,  settled  himself  in  it, 
with  his  legs  on  another  chair,  placed  the  cushion  on  his 
stomach,  and  on  the  cushion  the  book  which  he  had  selected 
from  his  supply,  and  began  to  read.  After  that  there  was 
silence  in  the  room  for  something  like  three  hours,  broken 
only  by  the  regular  turning  over  of  the  leaves,  the  fall  of  a 
coal,  or  the  stirring  of  the  old  dog  in  his  dreams.     At  intervals 


22  EXTON  MANOR 

Turner  would  lay  down  the  book,  and  fill  another  pipe,  or 
get  himself  up  out  of  the  chair  to  replenish  the  fire.  Then 
he  would  return  to  his  reading  with  renewed  zest,  and  so  the 
hours  crept  on  until  it  was  getting  on  for  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  At  last  he  came  to  the  final  page,  and  rising, 
stretched  himself  with  a  yawn.  "  That's  a  capital  one,"  he 
said.  "  Couldn't  tell  what  was  coming  till  half-way  through. 
I  haven't  got  many  more  like  that,  I'm  afraid.  Come  along, 
Caesar ;  time  we  went  to  bed."  He  lit  a  candle,  turned  out 
the  lamp,  and  went  up-stairs,  followed  slowly  by  the  old  dog. 
Nearly  four  hours  before,  Maximilian  Browne  had  stumped 
up  the  hill  from  the  White  House  to  Upper  Heath  in  his 
pumps,  as  Turner  had  pictured  him.  He  had  also  sworn 
lustily  and  aloud  as  he  walked,  his  good-humoured  face  dis- 
torted with  annoyance.  By  the  time  he  reached  his  house  he 
was  in  a  rather  more  equable  mood.  There  were  few  books 
in  the  room  which  he  entered,  but  it  was  as  comfortable  a 
bachelor's  den,  in  its  way,  as  Turner's.  He  was  welcomed 
)y  three  fox-terriers,  in  whose  company  he  smoked  a  pipe 
before  retiring  to  rest,  and  read  an  article  in  the  Field^  with 
most  of  which  he  found  himself  in  substantial  agreement. 
He  was  in  bed  and  snoring  by  half-past  eleven.  The  last 
words  he  said  to  himself  as  he  laid  his  head  on  the  pillow 
were,  "  Well,  I  don't  know  why  I  should  make  such  a  fuss. 
After  all,  he's  welcome." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    VICARAGE 

The  Reverend  William  Prentice  sat  at  one  end  of  the 
/icarage  breakfast-table,  and  his  wife,  behind  the  tea-cups,  at 
the  other.  The  Vicar  was  a  man  of  about  fifty  years  of  age. 
His  clean-shaven  face  was  not  unattractive.  There  was  a 
hint  of  obstinacy  about  the  set  of  the  jaw,  which  was  heavier 
than  the  thinness  of  brow  and  cheekbone  seemed  to  demand, 
but  the  mouth  was  amiable.  Mr.  Prentice,  perhaps,  would 
have  liked  to  hear  it  said  that  he  had  the  face  of  an  ascetic. 
It  had  some  slight  indications  that  way,  but  stopped  short  at 
the  half-way  house  of  clericalism. 

Mr.  Prentice  undoubtedly  succeeded  in  conveying  the  idea 
of  being  clerical,  and  the  shape  of  his  collar  and  waistcoat, 
and  the  various  metal  tokens  he  displayed  on  his  watch-chain 
would  no  doubt  have  informed  an  observer,  skilled  in  reading 
such  signs,  exactly  what  his  views  were  likely  to  be  upon  any 
question  of  ecclesiastical  interest  that  might  be  discussed  be- 
fore him.  He  did  not  look  as  if  any  considerable  trouble  had 
ever  befallen  him,  and  his  lines  now  certainly  seemed  to  have 
fallen  in  pleasant  places. 

Mrs.  Prentice  was  not  more  than  forty-five.  She  too  was 
thin  ;  thin  in  her  upright,  active  body ;  thin  in  her  face,  with 
a  thin,  straight  nose,  and  thin,  tight  lips ;  and,  her  critics 
would  probably  have  added,  with  a  thin,  but  rigid,  intelligence. 

"  Bacon,  my  dear  ?  "  said  her  husband,  uncovering  the  dish 
in  front  of  him. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice,  in  a  tone  which 
meant  more  than  her  words.     It  was  the  season  of  Lent,  and 

33 


24  EXTO^  MANOR 

Mrs.  Prentice  was  fasting,  on  a  principle  of  her  own,  and 
liked  it  to  be  known  that  she  was  doing  so. 

Mr.  Prentice  helped  himself  apologetically  from  the  dish. 
He,  also,  was  fasting,  on  a  principle  of  his  own,  which  did  not 
involve  the  loss  of  his  morning  bacon.  He  had  to  keep  up 
his  strength. 

"  I  have  heard  from  Freddy,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice,  putting 
down  a  letter  she  had  been  reading  by  the  side  of  her  plate. 
"  He  will  be  down  for  Easter."  Frederick  Prentice  was 
the  only  child  of  the  Vicar  of  Exton,  and  there  was  an  ex- 
pression on  his  mother's  face,  as  she  mentioned  his  name, 
which  seemed  to  show  that  he  filled  a  large  proportion  of 
any  tender  place  which  might  exist  in  her  heart.  The  Vicar's 
face  grew  no  softer  at  her  statement  i  perhaps  it  became  a 
trifle  more  severe. 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  see  Fred,"  he  said.  "  He  honours  us 
very  little  with  his  presence,  and  there  are  things  that  I  wish 
to  say  to  him." 

The  look  of  pleasure  disappeared  from  Mrs.  Prentice's  face. 
"  How  can  you  expect  him  to  be  always  running  down  here, 
William  ?  "  she  said,  rather  sharply.  "  He  has  his  work  to  do, 
and  the  journey  is  expensive." 

"  He  does  no  work  on  Sunday,"  retorted  the  Vicar,  "  and 
I  expect  very  little  on  Saturday.  I  very  much  doubt  whether 
he  is  doing  as  much  as  he  ought  on  the  other  days  of  the 
week.  And  we  know  that  he  does  pay  visits,  and  makes 
longer  journeys  to  do  so  than  he  would  have  to  if  he  came 
home." 

"You  are  talking  of  when  he  went  into  Devonshire  to 
shoot  with  Sir  George  Sheepshanks.  I  think  it  was  wise  of 
him  to  do  that.  It  is  not  every  young  man  reading  for  the 
bar  who  is  asked  to  the  country  house  of  a  judge." 

"  I  dare  say  not,"  returned  the  Vicar,  relinquishing  the 
point,     **  But,  at  any  rate,  his  extravagant  habits  still  con- 


THE  VICARAGE  aS 

tinue.  I  received  a  bill  from  his  tailor  for  quite  a  large 
amount  only  two  days  ago,  and " 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  trouble  you  until  I  had  thought  over 
what  could  be  done.  It  is  absurd  to  send  in  the  bill  to  me, 
and  I  am  certainly  not  going  to  make  myself  responsible  any 
further  for  Fred's  debts.  He  has  a  good  allowance,  but  he  is 
evidently  greatly  exceeding  it.  Before  we  know  where  we 
are,  we  shall  have  another  financial  crisis." 

"  After  all,  William,  you  have  not  had  to  pay  his  debts. 
I  know  he  was  very  extravagant  at  Oxford,  but  the  punish- 
ment has  fallen  on  his  own  shoulders." 

"  That  is  not  the  right  way  to  put  it,  Agatha.  His  god- 
father left  him  two  thousand  pounds,  with  the  object  of  help- 
ing him  through  his  education,  and  so  forth.  His  trustees, 
of  whom  I  am  one,  have  absolute  discretion  as  to  how  it 
should  be  used  for  his  benefit ;  but  he  was  not  to  have  it,  or 
any  portion  of  it,  for  his  own  use  until  he  is  twenty-five." 

"  I  know  all  that." 

"  I  don't  think  you  know  the  meaning  of  it.  I  was  very 
anxious  to  keep  the  sum,  with  the  interest  that  had  accrued  to 
it,  intact  until  he  should  really  need  it  for  some  definite  pur- 
pose. As  you  know,  I  paid  for  his  education  entirely  myself, 
and  am  prepared  to  make  him  an  adequate  allowance  until  he 
is  able  to  make  a  living.  He  piled  up  tremendous  debts  at 
Oxford,  and  more  than  half  his  legacy  has  gone  to  pay  them 
off.  And  it  looks  to  me  as  if  he  were  beginning  again  in  the 
same  way.  The  fact  is  that  he  looks  upon  this  money  as  a 
margin  up  to  which  he  can  spend.  It  is  nothing  to  him  that 
he  will  exhaust  it  in  this  foolish  way.  It  is  not  honest,  and  it 
seems  nonsense  to  talk  about  the  punishment  falling  on  his 
own  shoulders.** 

Mrs.  Prentice  bridled.  **  I  hope  you  will  not  talk  of  what 
I  say  being  nonsense,"  she  said.     "  It  does  not  appear  to  be 


26  EXTON  MANOR 

nonsense  to  me.  I  do  not  defend  Fred  for  his  extravagance 
at  Oxford  j  although,  of  course,  as  he  said  at  the  time,  two 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year  is  a  small  allowance  at  a  col- 
lege like  Magdalen.  But  the  money  that  paid  his  debts  is  his 
own,  and  if  he  has  already  spent  it,  or  part  of  it,  he  will  lose 
the  benefit  of  it  in  the  future.  You  can't  have  your  cake  and 
eat  it  too." 

A  dull  flash  of  annoyance  mounted  the  Vicar's  cheeks.  "  I 
am  quite  aware  of  that  fact,  Agatha,"  he  said,  with  voice 
slightly  raised.  "  But  you  forget  entirely  what  I  have  done 
for  Fred.  It  would  have  been  quite  within  my  powers  as 
trustee — indeed,  it  is  what  Mr.  Goldsmith  intended — to  have 
paid  for  his  Oxford  career  out  of  his  legacy,  and  also  for  his 
expenses  while  reading  for  the  bar.  I  took  a  pride  in  not 
doing  so,  but  I  might  just  as  well  have  kept  the  money  in  my 
pocket.  And  as  for  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year 
being  a  poor  allowance  for  an  undergraduate,  let  me  tell  you 
that  it  is  a  very  good  allowance.  I  did  very  well  myself  on  two 
hundred,  and  left  the  university  without  a  pennyworth  of  debt." 

*'  But  you  were  not  at  Magdalen,"  persisted  Mrs.  Prentice. 
"  The  standard  of  living  there  is  higher,  and  Fred  was  pop- 
ular. As  I  say,  I  don't  defend  his  extravagance,  but  I  should 
have  been  sorry  if  he  had  not  been  able  to  live  on  equal  terms 
with  his  fellow  undergraduates." 

*'  Who  for  the  most  part  are  a  good  deal  above  him  in  social 
status,"  interrupted  the  Vicar.  "  I  am  aware  that  that  gives 
you  considerable  satisfaction.  I  must  say  that  it  gives  me 
very  little.  I  should  have  thought  more  highly  of  Fred  if  he 
had  lived  with  the  men  of  his  own  standing,  and  kept  within 
his  quite  ample  allowance.  There  is  an  old  proverb  about 
brass  and  earthenware  pots  which  you  may  remember." 

"  I  hope  I  am  very  far  from  being  a  snob,  as  you  seem  to 
imply,  William,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice;  "but  I  cannot  forget 
that  my  family  is  an  old  and  distinguished  one,  and " 


THE  VICARAGE  27 

"  And  that  you  came  down  in  the  world  when  you  married 
me,"  interrupted  her  husband.  "  I  know  you  can't.  And  I 
can't  forget  that  your  assumptions  of  high  ancestry  rest  on 
very  slight  evidence.  However,  I  am  not  going  into  that 
question  now.  I  have  received  a  bill  from  Fred's  tailors  of 
no  less  than  eighty  pounds  odd.  I  say  it  is  nothing  less  than 
scandalous  that  such  a  bill  should  be  forthcoming  a  year  after 
he  was  freed  of  debt  and  started  clear  again.  What  is  to  be 
done  about  it  ?  " 

The  magnitude  of  the  sum  surprised  Mrs.  Prentice  enough 
to  turn  her  thoughts  from  the  side-issue  into  which  the  con- 
versation had  been  directed.  "  Is  it  as  much  as  that  ?  "  she 
asked.     "  There  must  be  some  mistake." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  I  have  very  little  hope  of  it ;  but  if  it  is 
so,  Fred  will  no  doubt  let  me  know.  I  shall  write  to  the  tailors 
and  tell  them  that  I  am  not  the  person  to  whom  my  son's 
accounts  should  be  sent.  He  is  of  age,  and  I  am  not  respon- 
sible for  them.  And  there  I  suppose  I  must  leave  it  till  Fred 
comes  home.  I  shall  talk  to  him  very  seriously,  and  I  hope  I 
may  rely  upon  your  doing  the  same,  Agatha." 

Mrs.  Prentice  replied  that  he  might  so  rely  on  her,  but  with' 
out  exhibiting  any  great  amount  of  indignation,  and  there  was 
silence  for  a  time  at  the  vicarage  breakfast-table. 

Presently  Mrs.  Prentice  said,  "  I  hear  that  Mrs.  RedclifFe 
had  a  dinner  party  last  night.  I  do  think,  William,  that  after 
all  you  have  said  in  the  pulpit  and  elsewhere  about  the  duties 
of  Lent,  it  is  a  little  too  bad  that  she  should  set  your  opinions 
at  defiance  so  far  as  to  choose  a  Friday  night  for  her  enter- 
tainment." 

"  A  dinner  party  ?  "  repeated  the  Vicar.  "  It  was  hardly 
that,  was  it  ?  Mrs.  O'Keefe  told  me  that  she  was  going  to 
dine  at  the  White  House.  I  did  not  gather  that  it  was  to  be 
a  dinner  party." 

^*You  might  have  known,   I   think,  that  wherever  Mrs. 


fS  EXTON  MANOR 

O'Keefe  went,  Mr.  Browne  would  be  hanging  on  her  skirts, 
and,  of  course,  that  odious  Captain  Turner  as  well.  I  cer- 
tainly call  a  party  of  five  a  dinner  party,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
that  they  played  cards  afterwards — for  money.  How  can  you 
possibly  expect  the  villagers  to  take  to  heart  what  you  say,  and 
to  learn  something  of  the  duties  which  the  Church  teaches, 
when  such  an  example  is  set  them  ?  I  do  think,  William, 
that  it  is  your  duty  to  see  Mrs.  RedclifFe  and  to  remonstrate 
with  her  on  the  subject." 

"  I  hardly  think  I  should  like  to  do  that,  Agatha,"  said  the 
Vicar  quietly. 

"  And  pray  why  not  ?  I  do  all  that  I  can  to  help  you  in 
these  matters,  for  I  think  them  of  the  greatest  importance. 
How  can  I  ask  the  children  to  give  up  sugar  during  Lent,  and 
the  women  gossiping,  and  the  men  tobacco,  when  those  who 
ought  to  set  them  an  example  are  allowed  to  act  as  they  please 
with  impunity  ?  It  is  most  uphill  work  as  it  is.  Try  as  I 
may  to  set  an  example  in  these  things  myself,  a  mere  handful 
follows  me,  and  out  of  those  that  do,  or  say  they  do,  I  could 
not  put  my  finger  on  one  who  does  not  expect  to  get  some 
substantial  return  for  it.  I  think  Mrs.  RedclifFe  deserves 
remonstrance,  and  ought  to  get  it." 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  had  better  remonstrate  with  her  your- 
self," said  the  Vicar  pleasantly ;  and  Mrs.  Prentice  resolved 
that  she  would,  but  did  not  publish  her  intention. 

She  set  out  on  her  errand  an  hour  later,  after  attending  to 
various  household  duties,  and  took  the  road  to  the  White 
House,  with  a  sense  of  expectation  not  wholly  allied  to  relig- 
ious aspiration. 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  was  wandering  round  her  flower  borders  in 
company  with  her  daughter.  The  wind  of  the  previous  night 
had  died  away,  and  the  day  was  warm  and  sunny.  The 
reviving  life  of  Spring  seemed  to  be  making  growth  that  was 
almost  visible  in  the  mild  air.     The  dafFodils,  planted  in  greaf 


THE  VICARAGE  29 

drifts  of  gold  under  the  trees  of  the  wilder  parts  of  the  garden, 
made  it  bright  with  colour,  and  the  early  flowers  in  the  bor- 
ders were  already  ushering  in  that  long  procession  of  bloom 
which  would  only  end  with  the  far-ofF  days  of  late  autumn. 
The  birds  sang  lustily  on  this  fine  spring  morning,  and  Mrs. 
RedclifFe's  garden  was  a  pleasant  place  for  a  stroll  of  inspection. 

Mrs.  Prentice  walked  across  thegrass  towards  them.  "She 
has  come  to  be  unpleasant,"  whispered  Hilda,  regarding  her 
approach,  but  Mrs.  RedclifFe  went  forward  to  meet  her  with  a 
smile  of  welcome. 

"  Isn't  this  a  delightful  little  burst  of  Spring  ? "  she  said. 
*'  We  were  just  going  up  into  the  shrub  garden.  Do  come 
with  us." 

But  Mrs.  Prentice  was  not  to  be  moved  from  her  purpose. 
*'  I  should  like  to  say  a  few  words  to  you,"  she  said  primly. 

Hilda's  face  grew  antagonistic,  and  she  kept  her  hold  on  her 
mother's  arm  as  Mrs.  Redcliffe  replied,  "  Then  let  us  go  in 
and  sit  down.     We  can  come  out  again  afterwards." 

The  doors  of  the  pleasant  sitting-room  were  wide  open  to 
the  garden.  Hilda  showed  no  signs  of  leaving  the  two  elder 
women  to  themselves  as  they  went  across  the  lawn  towards  the 
house,  but  Mrs.  Redcliffe  gently  disengaged  her  arm.  "  Go 
and  pick  me  a  big  bunch  of  daffodils,"  she  said — "  the  Hors- 
feldii,"  and  Hilda  left  them. 

Mrs.  Prentice  showed  slight  signs  of  nervousness  as  she 
seated  herself  facing  Mrs.  Redcliffe,  who  waited  quietly  for 
her  to  begin.  *'  I  called  to  see  you  in  a  friendly  way,"  she 
began,  with  some  hesitation — "  I  hope  you  will  not  misunder- 
stand me ;  it  is  so  important  that  those  of  us  in  a  position  to 
exercise  influence  should  see  eye  to  eye  in  matters  of  Church 
discipline,  and — well,  my  husband  has  been  preaching  about 
the  duties  of  Lent,  and  I  thought  I  would  ask  if  you  could  see 
your  way  to — to  uphold  me  and  the  Vicar  in — in  our  endeav- 
ours to "     She  tailed  off  into  ineffective  silence.     It 


30  EXTON  MANOR 

was  not  at  all  the  opening  she  had  intended  to  use  as  she  had 
walked  up  to  the  White  House,  but,  confronted  by  Mrs.  Red- 
clifFe's  calm,  steady  eyes,  she  had  felt  impelled  to  dispense  with 
her  intended  air  of  remonstrance. 

"  In  your  endeavours  to — what  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  RedclifFe. 

"  To  set  an  example  in  the  way  of  Lenten  observance,"  said 
Mrs.  Prentice,  gathering  courage. 

A  slight  smile  was  apparent  in  Mrs.  RedclifFe's  face. 
"  What  particular  example  of  Lenten  observance  do  you  al- 
lude to  ?  "  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Prentice  was  nettled  by  the  smile,  and  recovered  her 
assurance.  "  I  refer,"  she  said, "  to  the  practice  of  giving  din- 
ner parties  on  a  Friday.  It  is  one  of  the  things  that,  in  my 
own  house,  I  am  very  particular  about.  For  years  I  have 
made  it  a  practice  never  to  dine  out,  or  to  ask  people  to 
dinner  on  a  Friday  throughout  the  year.  I  do  not  say  that  I 
make  a  strict  rule  of  it  except  in  Lent.  Then  I  make  it  the 
strictest  rule." 

"Well,  Mrs.  Prentice,"  said  the  other  lady,  "  your  rules  for 
your  own  household  are  no  concern  of  mine,  and  you  will  for- 
give me  for  saying  plainly  that  my  rules  for  my  household  are 
no  concern  of  yours — or  of  the  Vicar's.  We  shall  be  none  the 
worse  friends,  I  hope,  if  we  recognize  that  our  views  upon  all 
matters  are  not  quite  the  same,  and  leave  one  another  to  act  as 
each  thinks  best.     Shall  we  go  into  the  garden  now  ?  " 

She  rose  from  the  sofa  on  which  she  had  been  sitting,  but 
Mrs.  Prentice  kept  her  seat.  "  But  surely,"  she  cried,  leaning 
forward,  "  you  do  not  deny  the  right  of  the  Church  to  lay  down 
rules  for  our  guidance  !  " 

"  I  deny  the  right  of  another  woman  to  make  rules  for  my 
guidance,"  replied  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  "  Come,  Mrs.  Prentice, 
let  us  go  into  the  garden." 

She  spoke  evenly,  her  grey  eyes  fixed  upon  her  visitor  with 
no  unkindness,    no   resentment,  but   steadily   regarding  her. 


THE  VICARAGE  31 

The  words  were  said  in  a  manner  that  made  it  possible  to  ig- 
nore the  rebuke  which  they  contained,  or,  at  any  rate,  not  ac- 
tively to  resent  it.  Mrs.  Prentice  decided  so  to  take  them. 
She  would  willingly  have  said  more,  but  found  it  impossible  to 
do  so  with  the  other  standing  calmly  before  her,  waiting  for  her 
to  rise.  She  got  up  from  her  chair,  and  Mrs.  Redcliffe  turned 
to  the  open  door.  "  You  have  heard  the  great  news,  I  sup- 
pose," she  said  as  they  went  out  together,  "the  news  that  has 
come  to  Exton  ?  " 

Mrs.  Prentice  did  not  like  to  acknowledge  that  any  news  of 
importance  which  had  to  do  with  Exton  was  unknown  to  her, 
but  she  was  feeling  a  trifle  shaken  by  the  way  her  remonstrance 
had  been  returned  to  her,  and  said,  without  fencing,  "No; 
what  is  that  ?  " 

"  Lady  Wrotham  is  coming  to  settle  down  at  the  Abbey." 

"Lady  Wrotham  ?  The  Abbey  ?  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Prentice. 
"  Oh,  but  are  you  sure  that  is  the  case  ?  I  have  heard  noth- 
ing of  it." 

"  Very  likely  not,"  returned  Mrs.  RedclifFe.     "  Mr. " 

"And  surely  I  should  have  heard  of  it,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Prentice ;  "  I  or  the  Vicar,  if  it  had  been  likely.  I  think  there 
must  be  some  mistake." 

Hilda  RedclifFe  came  across  the  lawn  and  joined  them. 
She  had  a  great  sheaf  of  daffodils  in  the  basket  on  her  arm. 

"  Thank  you,  darling,"  said  her  mother.  "  Put  them  down 
by  the  door.  Mrs.  Prentice  quite  refuses  to  believe  Mr. 
Browne's  news  about  Lady  Wrotham." 

"  Oh  ?  "  said  Hilda,  regarding  that  lady  with  no  great  favour. 

"  Mr.  Browne  ?  Does  the  information  come  from  him  ?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Prentice. 

"  Yes.  He  dined  with  us  last  night,  you  know.  He  had 
just  come  back  from  Hurstbury." 

Mrs.  Prentice  blinked  at  the  calm  mention  of  the  Friday 
evening  dinner. 


32  EXTON  MANOR 

"  That  accounts,  then,  for  our  not  being  the  first  to  hear 
of  it,"  she  said.  "  I  have  no  doubt  that  Lady  Wrotham  will 
write  to  me — or  to  the  Vicar,  if  she  has  not  already  done  so." 

"  Do  you  know  Lady  Wrotham  ?  "  asked  Hilda,  with  clear, 
antagonistic  eyes. 

"  My  dear  Hilda,"  returned  Mrs.  Prentice,  "  Lord  Wro- 
tham presented  the  Vicar  to  this  living.  He  would  hardly 
have  been  likely  to  have  done  so  to  a  stranger." 

"  Oh,"  said  Hilda  again. 

"  Have  you  ever  been  to  Hurstbury  Court  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
RedclifFe.  There  was  no  hint  of  malice  in  her  tone,  but  she 
must  have  known  that  had  Mrs.  Prentice  ever  been  at 
Hurstbury  Court  she  would  have  heard  of  it. 

"  Well — not  exactly,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice  hesitatingly. 
"  I  have  never  been  able  to  leave  home  at  the  time  Lady 
Wrotham  asked — might  have  asked — us  there.  Of  course, 
we  should  have  gone  to  the  funeral  if  it  had  been  at  Hurst- 
bury ;  but  up  in  Northumberland — it  is  such  a  long  journey  ; 
and,  what  with  Lent  coming,  and  one  thing  and  another,  the 
Vicar  and  I  could  hardly  spare  the  time.  I  do  not  think  that 
Lady  Wrotham  minded." 

"  I  shouldn't  think  she  would  in  the  least,"  said  Hilda. 
"  What  is  she  like,  Mrs.  Prentice  ?  Is  she  tall  or  short, 
stout  or  thin,  stately  or  meek  ?  We  want  to  know  all  about 
her  now  she  is  coming  to  live  here." 

"  I  think  you  had  better  wait  and  form  your  own  judg- 
ment, Hilda,"  replied  Mrs.  Prentice.  "  It  is  possible  that 
Lady  Wrotham  may  wish  to  live  in  absolute  retirement  here, 
so  soon  after  her  loss.  But  in  time  no  doubt  she  will  hope 
to  know  something  of  the  people  on  the  Manor." 

"  But,  of  course,  you  will  be  going  to  the  Abbey  from  the 
first,"  said  Hilda,  "  as  you  are  a  friend  of  Lady  Wrotham's." 

"  The  Vicar  and  I  will  naturally  be  seeing  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Prentice.     *'  But  I  did  not  say  I  was  a  friend  of  Lady  Wro« 


THE  VICARAGE  33 

tham's,  Hilda.  I  can  hardlf  claim  to  be  that.  She  very 
seldom  comes  to  Exton,  and " 

"  Mr.  Browne  said  she  had  not  been  here  for  five  and 
twenty  years,"  said  Hilda. 

"  Is  it  as  long  as  that  ?  Did — did  Mr.  Browne  say  when 
she  intended  to  come  here  ?  " 

"  He  did  not  say,"  replied  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  "  But  I  gath- 
ered that  it  would  be  before  long." 

'■'■  Ah  !  Well,  of  course,  we  shall  be  hearing  all  her  plans. 
Now  I  am  afraid  I  must  be  going  off.  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Red- 
clifFe. The  garden  is  getting  to  look  lovely.  Good-bye, 
Hilda.  By  the  bye,  you  will  be  pleased  to  hear  that  Fred  is 
coming  down  for  Easter." 

Hilda  looked  away  for  a  moment  across  the  park. 

'*  Oh,"  she  said  again,  coldly,  but  her  cheeks  were  a  little 
red. 

They  had  reached  the  gate,  and  Mrs.  Prentice  took  herself 
off  down  the  road,  while  the  mother  and  daughter  turned  to 
continue  their  stroll. 

"  What  did  she  want,  mother  ?  "  asked  Hilda.  "  I  am  sure 
it  was  something  disagreeable  by  her  face." 

"It  was  not  very  agreeable,"  said  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  "She 
made  a  mistake  in  coming,  but  she  was  actuated  by  a  sense  of 
duty." 

"  She  is  one  of  those  people  whose  sense  of  duty  always 
makes  them  impertinent,"  said  Hilda,  out  of  her  twenty 
years'  experience.  "  I  think  she  is  an  odious  woman,  mother. 
How  snobbish  of  her  to  pretend  she  is  a  friend  of  Lady 
Wrotham's,  when  it  was  quite  plain  that  she  had  never  set 
eyes  on  her." 

"You  must  not  talk  in  that  way,  dear.  She  did  not  say 
she  was  a  friend.     She  said  she  was  not." 

"  She  meant  that  we  should  think  it.  Where  can  she  have 
met  Lady  Wrotham  ?     She  has  never  been  to  Hurstbury,  and 


34  EXTON  MANOR 

she  has  not  seen  her  here.  She  is  a  snob,  mother,  and  you 
cannot  say  she  is  not.  And  she  is  impertinent  and  interfering 
too.     What  did  she  want  to  see  you  about  ?  " 

"  We  won't  go  into  that,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  "And 
I  don't  want  you  to  become  hostile  to  Mrs.  Prentice.  She  is 
a  good  woman  according  to  her  lights,  and  if  they  are  not  quite 
the  same  as  ours  we  must  make  allowances.  It  would  be 
very  disagreeable  in  a  small  place  like  this  if  we  were  to  take 
to  quarrelling." 

"  I  can't  pretend  to  like  Mrs.  Prentice,  mother,  and  it  is 
difficult  to  have  ordinary  patience  with  her." 

"  I  do  not  find  it  difficult." 

The  girl  turned  and  put  her  arms  round  her  mother's  neck. 
"Darling  mother,"  she  said,  "you  are  sweet  and  good  to 
everybody,  and  yet  I  know  you  can  see  their  bad  points  as 
well  as  I  can.     I  will  take  a  lesson  from  you." 

Mrs.  Prentice  went  down  the  road,  turning  over  in  her 
mind  the  important  piece  of  news  she  had  just  heard.  It  quite 
eclipsed  the  remembrance,  which  would  otherwise  have  filled 
her  thoughts,  of  the  purpose  of  her  visit  to  the  White  House, 
and  its  result.  When  she  reached  the  vicarage  she  went 
straight  into  her  husband's  study.  He  was  at  work  on  his 
sermons  for  the  next  day,  and  was  not  usually  interrupted  on 
a  Saturday  morning,  even  by  his  wife.  He  looked  up,  with  a 
shade  of  annoyance  on  his  face,  which  changed  into  a  look  of 
interest  as  she  disclosed  her  news. 

*'  I  do  think,"  she  said,  "  that  we — that  you  ought  to  have 
been  the  first  to  hear  of  this." 

"  I  don't  know  why,"  said  the  Vicar.  "  Neither  you  nor  I 
have  ever  met  Lady  Wrotham  in  our  lives,  and  it  sieems  to 
me  quite  natural  that  Browne  should  have  been  told  of  her 
decision." 

"Then  I  think  Mr.  Browne  ought  to  have  told  us  first 


THE  VICARAGE  35 

One  hardly  likes  to  have  to  acknowledge  to  Mrs.  rCedcliffe 
that  one  has  heard  nothing  of  an  important  change  of  this 
sort,  which,  of  course,  affects  us  more  than  anybody.  It  was 
probably  all  over  the  village  this  morning,  and  it  would  have 
been  a  pretty  thing  if  one  of  the  tradespeople,  for  instance, 
had  mentioned  it  to  me,  and  I  had  known  nothing  of  it." 

"  I  really  don't  think  I  should  worry  about  a  little  thing 
like  that,  Agatha,  if  I  were  you.     It  is  small-minded." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you,  William.  You  know  how  very 
ready  people  are  here  to  belittle  us,  if  they  get  the  slightest 
chance." 

'^  If  it  is  so,  it  must  be  something  in  ourselves  that  causes 
them  to  do  it.  As  a  priest,  I  ought  to  be  the  servant  of  my 
parishioners.  I  have  no  wish  to  set  myself  up  as  their  leader 
— except,  of  course,  in  matters  of  religion." 

"  And  it  is  just  in  those  matters  that  they  slight  your  claims. 
Would  you  believe  it,  that  Mrs.  Redcliffe  had  the  effrontery 
to  tell  me  that,  in  matters  of  Church  discipline,  she  acted 
entirely  by  her  own  rule  ?  " 

"  How  did  you  manage  to  get  on  to  such  a  subject  as  that 
with  her?  You — surely,  Agatha,  you  did  not  go  up  to  the 
White  House  to  tax  her  with  having  one  or  two  people  to  dine 
with  her  last  night  ?  " 

"  That  is  just  what  I  did  do,  William.  You  suggested  that 
I  should  do  so  yourself." 

The  Vicar  rose  from  his  chair  with  an  exclamation  of  im- 
patience. "  It  is  really  too  bad,"  he  said,  pacing  to  and  fro 
along  the  room.  "  How  could  you  take  it  upon  yourself  to 
do  a  thing  like  that  ?  You  know  perfectly  well  that  I  made 
no  such  suggestion." 

"  Excuse  me,  William,  but  you  did.  You  refused  to  do  it 
yourself,  as  I  think  you  ought  to  have  done,  and  you  said, 
distinctly,  *  You  had  better  go  up  to  the  White  House  your- 
self.' " 


36  EXTON  MANOR 

"  Perhaps  I  did,  and  it  must  have  been  quite  obvious  that 
I  said  so  in  the  way  of — what  shall  I  say  ? — sarcasm — chafF. 
You  know  it  was  the  last  thing  I  should  have  countenanced. 
I  suppose  the  fact  is  that  Mrs.  RedclifFe  told  you  to  mind 
your  own  business,  and  I  must  say  I'm  not  surprised  at  it. 
You  make  my  position  very  difficult  with  such  interference  as 
that;  which,  in  any  case,  would  be  quite  unwarrant- 
able." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  you  view  the  matter  in  that  light,  Will- 
iam. I  think  you  are  grossly  unfair  to  me.  I  do  all  I  pos- 
sibly can  to  support  you  in  the  village,  and  I  did  not  tax  Mrs. 
RedclifFe,  as  you  call  it.  I  talked  to  her  as  one  woman  can  to 
another,  or,  at  any  rate,  ought  to  be  able  to  do.  You  have  no 
cause  to  be  annoyed  with  me.  I  own  I  might  as  well  have 
saved  my  breath.  Mrs.  RedclifFe  is  not  a  good  Churchwoman. 
Her  views  I  consider  most  lax  on  many  matters  of  great  im- 
portance, and  I  might  have  known  that  she  would  not  have 
listened  to  reason  on  a  question  of  this  sort." 

"  Mrs.  RedclifFe  is  a  very  good  woman — most  charitable 
and  kind-hearted  in  every  way." 

"  Kind-hearted  !  If  you  think  that  is  a  substitute  for  Chris- 
tianity— however,  we  had  better  say  no  more  about  it.  I 
shall  certainly  never  open  my  mouth  again  to  Mrs.  RedclifFe 
on  such  matters." 

*'  Nor  to  any  one  else,  I  hope.  If  I  thought  it  to  be  my 
duty  to  speak  to  any  of  the  people  living  about  here  upon  a 
serious  matter,  I  should  not  shrink  from  it.  But  it  is  not  pos- 
sible— you  ought  to  know  it  is  not  possible — to  interfere  with 
the  way  people  choose  to  conduct  their  lives  in  minor  points. 
They  only  resent  it,  and  no  good  is  done.  I  preach  what  I 
conceive  to  be  the  better  way.  The  responsibility  rests  with 
them  whether  they  take  it  or  no.  You  must  promise  me  not 
to  interfere  in  this  way  again." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  against  you,  William.     I  only  want  to 


THE  VICARAGE  37 

assist  you  {n  your  endeavours  to  make  the  people  better.  If  I 
have  made  a  mistake,  I  am  sorry  for  it.  You  do  not  object, 
of  course,  to  my  giving  advice  to  the  poor  people  ? " 

The    corners   of  the  Vicar's   mouth   curled   into  a  smile. 
"You  know  pretty  well  what  I  object  to,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  IV 

LORD  WROTHAM 

The  fine  weather  which  came  in  with  the  great  winds  oi' 
iVIarch  continued  without  intermission  until  after  Easter.  The 
air  was  warm,  and  sweet  with  the  scent  of  fertile  soil,  exuding 
odours  of  Spring.  Only  the  bare  branches  of  the  trees  gave 
warning  that  the  time  of  the  good  days  had  not  yet  arrived, 
and  that  there  was  cold,  dull  weather  to  come,  before  this 
pleasant  heat  and  sunshine  could  be  looked  for  of  right. 

One  morning  just  before  Easter,  Maximilian  Browne,  with 
an  open  telegram  on  the  breakfast-table  before  him,  was  giv- 
ing anxious  instructions  to  the  servant  who  stood  by  his  side. 

"And  tell  Mrs.  Mitten  to  be  sure  to  be  punctual,"  he  was 
saying.  "  We  shall  not  have  much  time  for  lunch.  His 
lordship  will  want  to  drive  round  the  Manor,  and  he  goes 
back  at  five  o'clock.  Tell  her  to  have  everything  as  nice  as 
possible." 

"  Very  good,  sir,"  said  Mitten.  "  You  will  want  the  cart 
at  half-past  nine,  I  suppose." 

"  Er — no — nine  o'clock.  I — there  may  be  something  to 
see  to  at  the  office." 

There  was  nothing  to  see  to  at  the  office,  or  if  there  was 
Browne  changed  his  mind  about  seeing  to  it  on  his  way  to 
the  station,  for  he  drove  through  the  village  without  stopping. 
Above  the  bridge  and  the  mill-sluice  the  tidal  river  widened 
into  a  great  stretch  of  water,  fringed  with  brown  reeds. 
Across  it  the  grey  pile  of  the  Abbey  could  be  seen  through  and 
above  the  trees,  a  fine  house,  modernized,  but  with  great  care. 
Its  many  windows  were  blind,  and  the  flag-stafF  stood  naked 
on  the  tower.     To  the  right  were  the  houses  and  cottages  of 

38 


LORD  WROTHAM  39 

the  village,  with  red,  lichen-covered  roofs  and  chimney-stacks, 
picturesque  in  their  irregularity.  Browne,  whose  waking 
thoughts  were  mostly  concerned  with  Exton  Manor,  reflected 
as  he  drove  along  the  road  by  the  lake  that  its  owners  had 
hitherto  showed  little  interest  in  this  portion  of  their  heritage. 
"  I  would  rather  have  Exton  than  Hurstbury  and  Shelbraith 
put  together,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  looked  across  the  shin- 
ing water. 

He  drove  on  for  a  mile  or  more  along  a  country  road,  until 
a  steep  dip  brought  him  to  a  gate,  at  which  Exton  Manor 
ended  and  the  forest  began.  Then  his  road  lay  between  great 
trees  and  stretching  forest  glades,  across  a  clear  stream  and  out 
on  to  an  open  heath,  again  under  trees,  and  finally  across  a 
wide  expanse  of  moor,  bounded  by  blue  hills  and  purple  wood- 
lands. At  a  distance  of  a  mile  across  the  moor  huddled  the 
little  group  of  new  red-brick  buildings  which  marked  the  rail- 
way station,  dumped  down  in  the  middle  of  the  heather. 

The  road  was  straight,  with  one  or  two  steep  dips.  Reach- 
ing the  top  of  one  of  these,  Browne  saw  far  away  in  front  of 
him  a  black  spot,  which  looked  like  a  closed  carriage,  nearing 
the  station.  He  quickened  the  pace  of  his  horse,  and,  before 
he  reached  the  end  of  the  straight  stretch  of  road,  met  an 
empty  brougham  being  driven  back  in  the  direction  of  Exton. 
He  gave  the  reins  to  his  groom,  and  went  through  the  book- 
ing-office, and  out  on  to  the  platform.  On  the  other  side  of 
the  line  Norah  O'Keefe,  in  travelling  costume,  was  walking 
up  and  down.  Her  maid  stood  by  a  little  pile  of  luggage,  but 
the  mistress  was  not  left  alone  on  that  account,  for  pacing  up 
and  down  with  her  was  Captain  Thomas  Turner. 

Browne's  face  fell  perceptibly,  but  he  made  his  way  across 
the  line  and  joined  the  pair.  *'  Lord  Wrotham  is  coming 
down  by  the  10.15  train,"  he  said  with  some  haste,  when  he 
had  shaken  hands  with  both  of  them.  "  I've  come  to  meet 
him." 


40  EXTON  MANOR 

"It's  only  half-past  nine,"  said  Turner.  "You'll  have  a 
long  time  to  wait." 

"  Where  are  you  off  to  ?  "  inquired  Browne,  regarding  him 
with  an  eye  of  suspicion. 

"  Taking  some  fish  to  Troutbridge,"  replied  Turner 
promptly. 

*'  Thought  you  weren't  going  till  to-morrow  ?  ** 

"  No,  I'm  going  to-day." 

"  Captain  Turner  is  going  to  keep  me  company  as  far  as 
Greathampton,"  said  Norah,  anxious  to  avoid  a  bickering 
match. 

"  Very  kind  of  him,"  said  Browne.  *'  I  suppose  you  don't 
mind  travelling  third-smoking.  That's  what  he  generally 
goes." 

"  Are  your  clocks  fast  ?  "  inquired  Turner.  *'  Seems  a 
funny  thing  allowing  an  hour  and  a  quarter  for  a  five-mile 
drive." 

"  Is  Lord  Wrotham  coming  to  stay  here  ?  "  interrupted 
Norah. 

"  No.  Just  coming  for  the  day  to  have  a  look  round," 
replied  Browne  grumpily. 

"  I'm  glad  of  that,"  she  said.  "  I  shouldn't  like  to  have 
missed  him.  Tell  him  how  excited  we  all  are  at  the  prospect 
of  seeing  him." 

"  I  don't  suppose  we  shall  see  much  of  him  when  Lady 
Wrotham  comes  here,"  said  Browne.  "  He  is  giving  the 
place  over  to  her  entirely  as  long  as  she  lives  here." 

"  And  I  shall  be  away  when  she  comes,  I  suppose.  I  am 
not  coming  back  for  a  month,  you  know.  I'm  such  a 
wretched  sailor  that  when  I  do  make  up  my  mind  to  cross 
to  Ireland  I  like  to  stay  there." 

"  Well,  we  shall  all  miss  you  very  much,  Mrs.  O'Keefe," 
said  Browne  earnestly.  "  The  days  will  be  long  enough  till 
you  come  back  again." 


LORD  WROTHAM  41 

*'  Very  well  put,"  commented  Turner.  *'  I  say,  Browne, 
if  you've  got  any  business  to  look  after  here,  don't  let's  keep 
you.     I  can  see  tha"  Mrs.  O'Keefe's  all  right." 

"  I  haven't  got  anything  to  do,  thanks,"  replied  Browne 
shortly.  "  Are  yo'i  sure  your  beastly  fish  won't  drown,  left 
on  a  truck  like  that  ?  I  should  go  and  jog  them  up  if  I  were 
you." 

He  pointed  to  where  two  rows  of  curiously-shaped  closed 
cans  were  arranged  on  a  station  trolley  at  the  end  of  the 
platform.  It  may  be  explained  for  the  benefit  of  the  un- 
initiated that,  unless  the  water  in  these  cans  were  kept  aerated 
by  the  jolting  of  wagon  or  train  during  their  journey,  the  fish 
would  die  before  they  got  to  the  end  of  it. 

"  The  train  will  be  here  in  a  minute,"  said  Turner.  "  It's 
signalled.  They'll  be  all  right  till  then,  thanks.  If  you  think 
they  want  it,  you  might  give  the  truck  a  run  down  to  the 
other  end.     I'll  time  you." 

"  I  never  saw  anything  like  you  two  for  quarrelling,"  said 
Norah,  as  Browne  turned  his  back  on  this  ribald  suggestion 
without  deigning  a  reply.  "  And  yet  I  know  you  are  the 
very  best  of  friends — David  and  Jonathan,  in  fact." 

"  Exton  is  a  small  place,"  said  Turner.  "  It  don't  do  to 
be  too  particular." 

The  train  arriving  cut  short  a  further  interchange  of  com- 
pliments. Turner  handed  Mrs.  O'Keefe  into  a  first-class 
carriage,  and  busied  himself  mightily  with  her  comfort.  The 
train  went  ofF  again,  and  Browne  raised  his  cap,  as  a  fair  face 
framed  in  furs,  and  a  thin,  sardonic  one  opposite  to  it,  were 
borne  out  of  his  sight.  He  turned  away  with  an  angry  ex- 
clamation. "  Can't  make  out  how  I  stand  that  fellow,"  he 
said  to  himself,  as  he  walked  down  the  platform.  "  Fact  is, 
he's  knocked  all  of  a  heap  when  he's  with  the  lady — any 
lady.  Don't  know  how  to  behave  himself  decently.  Most 
offensive  trait  in  a  fellow's  character.     Silly  ass  !  " 


42  EXTON  MANOR 

He  crossed  over  to  the  down  platform.  There  were  stiL 
three-quarters  of  an  hour  to  wait,  and  Browne  was  not  a 
good  waiter.  He  got  through  the  time  somehow.  He  had 
a  conversation  with  the  station-master,  who  was  sowing 
seeds  in  his  vegetable  garden,  and  another  with  a  chicken- 
raising  porter.  Then  he  went  across  to  the  station  hotel 
and  talked  to  the  landlord,  becoming  so  interested  in  a  dis- 
cussion on  the  advisability  of  starting  a  society  for  improving 
the  breed  of  forest  ponies,  that  the  train  he  was  awaiting 
came  in  as  he  was  still  talking,  and  he  had  to  run  across  to 
the  station. 

He  arrived  in  time  to  see  a  young  man  who  had  just 
alighted  standing  on  the  platform  and  looking  about  him. 
He  was  not  particularly  distinguished  in  appearance,  except 
for  a  look  of  pleasant  good-nature,  agreeable  enough.  He 
was  not  above  the  middle  height,  but  had  a  slim,  active  figure, 
which  made  him  appear  tall.  He  wore  a  loose  tweed  over- 
coat, and  was  smoking  a  briar  pipe. 

"  Ah,  here  you  are,"  he  said,  as  Browne  came  panting  on 
to  the  platform.  "  How  are  you?  Air's  nice  and  fresh  down 
here.  Ticket  I  Here  you  are,  sonny.  I'll  keep  the  other 
half.  Jove  !  this  seems  an  out-of-the-way  place  for  a  station. 
That's  a  nice-looking  nag  of  yours,  Browne.  Want  to  be 
ofF,  eh,  old  girl  ?     Well,  we  shan't  keep  you  long." 

They  drove  out  of  the  station  yard  and  across  the  brown 
heath.     "  About  four  miles,  isn't  it  ?  "  inquired  Lord  Wrotham. 

"  Just  under  four  to  the  Abbey  gates,"  said  Browne.  "  But 
you've  been  here  before,  haven't  you  ?  " 

"  Not  since  I  was  a  kiddy.  I  hardly  remember  the  place 
at  all.  Quite  exciting  to  have  a  look  at  it  again.  Jolly 
pretty  place,  isn't  it  ?     Everybody  says  so." 

"  It's  the  prettiest  place  Pve  ever  seen,"  replied  Browne. 
"  I  was  only  saying  to  myself  as  I  came  along,  I'd  rathei 
have  Exton  than  Hurstbury  and  Shelbraith  put  together." 


LORD  WROTHAM  43 

"  Would  you  now  ?  Well,  of  course  there's  plenty  to  do 
here.     Still,  with  the  shooting  let,  I  don't  know." 

"  You  could  get  the  shooting  back  if  you  wanted  it. 
Ferraby  only  holds  it  on  a  yearly  tenancy." 

"Yes.  Well,  of  course,  I  did  think  of  it.  I'm  not  deadly 
keen  on  Hurstbury.  Too  big  a  house  for  a  bachelor  to  keep 
up.  But  her  ladyship  had  the  choice,  and  she  seemed  to 
think  she  could  make  herself  fairly  comfortable  down  here." 

"  She  ought  to  be  able  to.  The  house  is  in  tip-top  order. 
Old  Sir  Joseph  didn't  care  what  he  spent  on  it.  He's  im- 
proved it  a  lot." 

"  Any  people  about  for  her  to  boss  ?  " 

Browne  had  known  Lord  Wrotham  since  his  schooldays, 
and  was  not  so  much  startled  at  this  speech  as  otherwise  he 
might  have  been. 

"  There  are  some  big  houses  round,"  he  said.  "  None 
very  near." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  them.  I  mean  the  people  in  the  vil- 
lage.    What's  the  parson  like  ?     Is  he  low  ?  " 

"  No.  I  believe  not.  I'm  not  much  on  those  questions, 
myself;  but  a  pal  told  me  he  was  high." 

"  Well,  then,  he  won't  suit  her  ladyship.  If  he's  got  any 
fight  in  him  you'll  have  some  sport.  We  might  have  a  bet 
on  it.  I  haven't  seen  the  parson,  but  I'm  willing  to  risk  it, 
and  lay  you  two  to  one  on  the  Mater." 

Browne  laughed.  "  I  expect  you  would  win,"  he  said. 
"  But  look  here,  Kemsing — Lord  Wrotham,  I " 

"  Oh,  for  goodness'  sake  don't  begin  my  lording  me,"  in- 
terrupted the  young  man.     "  I  get  quite  enough  of  that." 

"  You're  my  employer,"  said  Browne,  with  a  comfortable 
chuckle. 

"  Yes ;  and  I'll  sack  you  if  you  don't  do  what  you're  told. 
Well  ?  " 

"I  wish  you'd  see  if  you  could  manage  to  give  her  ladyship 


44  EXTON  MANOR 

a  hint — you  know,  just  in  the  ordinary  course  of  conversation 
— I  tried  to  do  it  myself,  but  I  couldn't  see  my  way — don't 
let  her  think  it  comes  from  me " 

"  Go  on.     What  sort  of  a  hint  ?  ** 

''  Well,  we're  rather  a  happy  little  family  down  here.  I'm 
jolly  glad  of  it.  I've  been  careful  of  the  tenants  I've  got 
here,  and  they're  a  nice  lot,  taking  them  all  round.  If  she 
could — well,  of  course,  I  don't  want  her  to  inconvenience 
herself — I  mean,  if  she  waited  a  bit — ^you  know,  just  till  she 
saw  what  sort  of  people  they  were  on  the  Manor,  before — 
before " 

^'  Before  she  begins  to  ramp  around  ?  My  stout  friend, 
there's  a  parable  somewhere,  although  I  dare  say  you  have 
never  heard  of  it,  about  the  leopard  changing  his  spots." 

"  I  have  heard  of  it.     It's  in  the  Bible." 

*'  Very  well,  then.  Your  happy  family  must  either  set  its 
back  up — in  which  case  there'll  be  trouble — or  it  must  knock 
under  from  the  first." 

"  That  might  save  the  trouble,  but " 

"  Oh,  no,  it  wouldn't.     There'll  be  trouble  in  any  case.'* 

"  I  was  going  to  say  that  I  don't  think  all  of  them  would 
do  it." 

"  You've  got  a  few  fighters,  have  you  ?  It  will  make  all 
the  better  sport.  Who  are  the  people  living  here  ?  Tell  me 
about  'em.  There's  the  Vicar.  He's  high.  Will  he  come 
off  his  perch,  or  stay  up  there  to  be  shot  at  ?  " 

"  He's  a  nice  fellow,  Prentice.  He'll  hate  being  interfered 
with,  though.  And  Mrs.  Prentice  will  hate  it  worse.  Don't 
care  for  her  much.  She's  the  only  woman  hereabouts  that 
tries  to  make  mischief." 

"  Well,  that's  two  of  'em.     Who  else  ?  " 

"There's— er— Mrs.  Redclifi^e  at  the  White  House.  We 
enlarged  it  for  her.  One  of  the  best.  Quiet,  but  pretty 
firm.     I  should  think  her  ladyship  might  like  her — but,  by 


LORD  WROTHAM  45 

the  bye,  she  said  she  knew  all  about  her.  Do  you  Icnow 
how  ?  " 

"  Never  heard  of  her.     Widow  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  with  one  daughter." 

"  Nice  girl  ?  " 

"  Charming  girl.  Then  there's  Turner,  who  has  the 
Fisheries — Captain  Turner ;  he  was  in  the  BufFs.  Queer 
stick,  but  a  good  fellow.  He  don't  go  to  church  much, 
though." 

"  He'll  have  to  alter  that.     Who  else  ? " 

"There's  a  very  nice  lady,  Mrs.  O'Keefe,  at  Street  House." 

"  O'Keefe  !     What  O'Keefe  ?  " 

*'  Her  husband  was  a  brother  of  Lord  Bally  shannon.  He 
was  killed  in  South  Africa." 

"  What,  poor  old  Paddy  O'Keefe  ?  In  the  Grenadiers  ? 
I  was  at  Eton  with  him.     She's  quite  young  then  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  Lady  Wrotham  did  hint  to  me  that  I  had  let 
the  place  to  her  cheap  on  that  account." 

"  Oh,  no  she  didn't,  old  man.  That  isn't  her  way.  She 
taxed  you  with  it  outright." 

"  Well,  yes,  she  did.  But  I  need  scarcely  tell  you,  Kem~ 
sing,  that  such  a  thing  never  entered  my  head." 

*'  Of  course  not,  old  boy.  You'd  much  rather  have  had 
an  old  lady,  wouldn't  you  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  At  any  rate,  there  she  is,  and 
she's  a  great  acquisition  to  the  place." 

«  Pretty,  eh  ?  " 

"  Ye-es.  She's  certainly  good-looking,  and  very  charming, 
and  all  that.  I  don't  know  when  I've  met  a  nicer  woman. 
'Course,  there's  nothing  in  what  Lady  Wrotham  hinted  at, 
far  as  I'm  concerned.  Too  old  for  that  sort  of  thing  now. 
Still,  I  suppose  I'm  not  too  old  to  take  pleasure  in  the  society 
of  a  charming  woman." 

"  By  Jove,  no,  old  man  !     You're  as  young  as  the  rest  of 


46  EXTON  MANOR 

us.  Do  other  people  take  pleasure  in  her  society — Turner, 
for  instance  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he's  a  perfect  fool  about  her.  Rather  ridiculous  in  a 
man  of  his  age — and  appearance.  Bores  her  to  death,  too. 
Always  hanging  about  her." 

"  Ho,  ho,  my  young  friend  !     I  think  I  see  daylight." 

"  Eh— what  ?  " 

"  Rivals,  and  a  touch  of  the  green-eyed  one." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Kemsing.  She  hasn't  got 
green  eyes.  They  are  violet,  and  one  of  the  best  things 
about  her.  And  as  for  rivals.  Turner's  welcome,  as  far  as 
I'm  concerned.  I've  told  him  that  if  he  marries  her  I'll  be 
his  best  man.  That  shows  that  I've  got  no  plans  of  the  sort 
for  myself;  I  think  you'll  acknowledge  that.  For  goodness' 
sake,  don't  put  that  idea  into  Lady  Wrotham's  head,  or  we 
shall  have  no  end  of  a  bother." 

"  Don't  you  fear  me,  Browne.  I  won't  make  mis- 
chief. You'll  have  quite  enough  as  it  is.  What's  this 
place  ?  " 

They  were  approaching  the  gate  which  divided  the  forest 
from  the  Manor.  On  a  gentle  rise  to  the  right,  facing  a 
sloping  meadow,  and  backed  by  a  great  bank  of  trees, 
stood  a  house  of  no  great  pretensions  to  beauty,  but  of  some 
importance,  with  its  well-kept  flower  garden  and  spacious  out- 
buildings. 

"  That's  Forest  Lodge.     Ferraby  rents  it." 

"  Oh,  that's  Ferraby's  place,  is  it  ?  I  suppose  they  are  not 
here  much  ? " 

"  Only  two  or  three  months  in  the  year.  They  'liven  us 
up  a  bit  when  they  do  come.  But  I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  they 
will  hit  it  off  with  Lady  Wrotham." 

"  Probably  not.  They  are  of  the  earth,  earthy.  How  far 
are  we  from  Exton  now  ?  " 

"  Getting  on  for  two  miles.     This  is  Forest  Farm.     It  goes 


LORD  WROTHAM  47 

with  the  Lodge.  Of  course,  you  know,  we're  in  the  Manor 
now." 

The  rest  of  the  drive  along  a  winding,  hedge-bordered  lane, 
with  grass  and  arable  fields  on  either  side,  here  and  there  a 
farmhouse  with  a  group  of  cottages,  and  to  the  left  a  slow 
stream  meandering  through  water  meadows,  was  taken  up  with 
subjects  having  to  do  with  Wrotham's  ownership  of  the  estate, 
and  Browne's  management  of  it,  also  with  questions  of  sport. 
When  they  approached  the  broad  sheet  of  water,  on  the  other 
side  of  which  the  house  and  the  village  faced  them,  Wro- 
tham  gave  vent  to  an  involuntary  expression  of  surprise  and 
pleasure.  "  By  Jove  !  "  he  said.  "  I  didn't  remember  it  was 
half  as  jolly  as  this." 

Browne's  round,  red  face  showed  gratification.  "  Ah  !  I 
thought  you'd  be  pleased,"  he  said.  "  To  tell  you  the  tfuth,  I 
did  hope  you  would  have  settled  down  here  yourself.  It 
wouldn't  cost  half  as  much  to  keep  up  as  Hurstbury,  and  there's 
more  fun  to  be  got  out  of  it.  However,  it's  too  late  to  think 
about  that  now.  You'll  be  down  here  occasionally,  I  dare 
say  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  expect  I  shall  spend  most  of  my  time  here,"  replied 
the  young  man  flippantly.  "  Can't  bear  to  be  parted  from  my 
mother,  you  know." 

"  1  say,  Kemsing,  you'll  have  to  be  careful  how  you 
speak  about  Lady  Wrotham  down  here,"  said  Browne 
seriously.  "  I  haven't  breathed  a  word  about  the  difficulties 
that  may  crop  up — jolly  careful  not  to.  Don't  let  anybody 
hear  you  say  anything — er — disrespectful.  It  'ud  create  a 
devilish  bad  impression." 

The  young  man  laughed.  "It's  an  impression  that  has 
been  created  in  a  good  many  places,"  he  said.  "  Her  lady- 
ship and  I  don't  get  on,  as  they  say.  She's  never  hidden 
ihe  fact,  and  why  should  I  ?  However,  I  don't  suppose  our 
disturbances  will  have  much  effect  on  your  collection  of  inno- 


48  EXTON  MANOR 

cents,  for  this  will  probably  be  my  last  visit  to  Exton  for  some 
considerable  time.  Ah,  this  is  the  Gate  House.  I  remember 
this." 

Then  followed  the  inspection  of  house  and  gardens.  Browne 
suggested  that  the  adjacent  ruins  of  the  old  Abbey  should  also 
receive  notice.     Lord  Wrotham  demurred. 

"  Let's  leave  them  for  the  present,  and  get  through  the 
papers,"  he  said,  and  they  adjourned  for  an  hour  to  the  estate 
office. 

The  news  had  meantime  got  about  that  the  new  Earl  was 
on  view  for  a  strictly  limited  period,  and,  when  he  and  Browne 
emerged  from  the  office  and  climbed  again  into  the  dog-cart, 
there  was  a  fair  proportion  of  the  inhabitants  of  Exton  gathered 
together  on  the  pavements,  or  in  the  village  street,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  viewing  the  portent.  What  malign  fate  was  it  that 
brought  the  Vicar's  wife  down  the  road  with  a  warm  invitation 
to  luncheon  just  one  minute  too  late  ?  She  had  received  the 
news  only  half-an-hour  before,  had  spent  the  intervening  time 
in  strenuous  efforts  to  raise  the  tone  of  her  establishment  to 
the  necessary  altitude,  and,  changing  her  attire,  had  borne 
down  on  the  Manor  office  to  deliver  the  invitation  herself,  her 
husband  being  out  for  the  day.  Now  she  had  the  mortifica- 
tion of  seeing  Browne's  dog-cart  swing  down  the  road  and 
round  the  corner  of  the  inn  while  she  was  yet  a  hundred  yards 
away  from  the  point  at  which  it  had  been  standing  for  the  past 
hour.  Should  she  call  out  ?  Instinctively,  in  her  distress,  she 
opened  her  mouth  to  do  so.  But  her  voice  would  not  carry 
so  far.  Should  she  shout  to  the  bystanders  to  stop  the  cart  ? 
The  force  of  lusty  male  lungs  would  have  the  effect  that  she 
could  not  produce  by  herself.  "  Stop  them,  stop  them,"  she 
cried  shrilly.  A  few  heads  of  the  score  or  so  turned  towards 
the  disappearing  cart,  faced  round  slowly,  and  remained  fixed, 
their  eyes  regarding  her  with  bovine  blankness.  Mrs,  Prentice 
anathemati-/^  the  stupidity  of  their  owners  in  language  which. 


LORD  WROTHAM  49 

in  a  calmer  moment,  she  would  have  been  the  first  to  deprecate 
— especially  in  Lent.  But,  fortunately,  she  used  it  inaudibly, 
and  congratulated  herself  later  that  her  influence  for  good  over 
her  husband's  flock  had  not  suffered  serious  damage  from  her 
moment  of  pardonable  irritation.  When  she  succeeded  in 
making  it  understood  what  it  was  she  wanted,  the  cart  had  dis- 
appeared. 

But  Mrs.  Prentice  was  not  yet  beaten.  She  seized  upon 
the  recipient  of  her  last  discarded  hat — a  young  girl  of  eight- 
een, whom  she  had  thought  it  was  most  likely  to  suit — and 
sent  her  speeding  off  with  a  message.  Gratitude,  combined 
with  hope,  lent  the  damsel  wings.  She  ran  off  in  the  track  of 
the  departing  wheels,  conning  her  lesson  as  she  went.  She  was 
not  to  forget  to  say  this,  she  was  to  be  sure  and  remember  to 
say  that.  She  clung  to  the  two  words,  "  compliments  "  and 
'•*  honour,"  upon  which  her  instructions  were  peremptory. 
Mrs.  Prentice's  compliments,  and  would  his  lordship  do  her 
the  honour  ?  Compliments  first.  "  C  "  comes  before  "  h." 
And  she  was  to  be  sure  and  say  ''  my  lord,"  as  was  only  fit- 
ting. By  the  time  she  had  tracked  the  pair  to  the  home-farm 
she  had  her  lesson,  and  delivered  it  jerkily  with  what  breath  re- 
mained to  her.  But  she  delivered  it  to  Browne,  not  being 
able,  when  the  time  came,  to  support  the  effulgence  of  the 
titled  stranger.  "  Mrs.  Prentice's  compliments,  and  will  she 
do  you  the  honour  of  my  lord's  lunch  at  one  o'clock  ?  '* 
Browne  disentangled  the  kernel  of  the  message  from  the  husk. 

"  Thank  Mrs.  Prentice,  and  say  that  his  lordship  is  lunch- 
ing with  me,"  he  said,  and  the  damsel  departed. 

"  Who  is  Mrs.  Prentice  ?  "  asked  Wrotham. 

"  Oh,  the  Vicar's  wife.  You  don't  want  to  be  bothered 
with  her."  And  they  turned  afresh  to  their  inspection  of 
various  live-stock. 

The  White  House,  with  its  sweep  of  lawn,  flanked  by  big 
trees,  and  backed  by   a  grassy  rise,  faced  them  as  they  came 


50  EXTON  MANOR 

out  again  into  the  road.  Mrs.  Redcliffe  and  Hilda  were  at 
work  on  one  of  the  flower  beds.  The  trees  and  shrubs  which 
had  been  planted  as  a  screen  from  the  road  had  not  yet  grown 
up,  and  the  whole  garden  lay  open  to  view  from  the  seat  of 
Browne's  dog-cart. 

"  By  Jove,  that's  a  pretty  place,"  said  Wrotham. 

"Yes.  It  was  a  carter's  cottage,"  said  Browne,  with  some 
pride.  "We  altered  it  ourselves.  Made  a  good  job  of  it, 
haven't  we  ? "  He  waved  his  hat  to  the  ladies,  who  had 
turned  towards  them  at  the  sound  of  wheels.  They  were 
too  far  off  for  their  faces  to  be  seen,  but  Hilda  stood,  a  young, 
erect  figure,  regarding  them  with  a  frank  curiosity.  "  Mrs. 
RedclifFe  and  her  daughter,"  said  Browne  in  a  low  voice. 

"Nice-looking  girl,"  said  Wrotham,  whose  gaze  had  also 
been  direct.  "  I  should  rather  like  to  have  a  look  at  that 
place.     Couldn't  we  pay  them  a  friendly  call  ?  " 

"  We'll  go  in  on  our  way  down,  after  lunch,  if  you  like. 
I  should  like  you  to  see  what  we've  done  to  the  place.  I  be- 
lieve if  we  were  to  put  up  a  few  more  houses  of  that  sort,  on 
different  parts  of  the  estate,  we  should  let  them  without  any 
difficulty.     I'd  like  to  talk  it  over  with  you." 

They  talked  that  and  other  matters  over  during  their  drive 
up  the  hill  to  Browne's  house,  and  during  the  progress  of 
luncheon.  Then  they  inspected  Browne's  live-stock,  and 
stables,  and  garden,  and  afterwards  walked  down  the  hill 
through  the  woods  to  the  White  House,  having  ordered  the 
cart  to  follow  them  by  road. 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  received  her  new  landlord  with  her  custom- 
ary placidity.  The  young  man  chatted  to  her  and  Hilda  with 
impartial  good-humour.  He  had  that  agreeable  gift  of  never 
being  at  a  loss  for  something  to  say,  and  could  put  the  most 
diffident  at  their  ease  without  exertion.  His  little  jokes  and 
pleasantries,  although  not  exactly  scintillating  with  wit,  were 
so  evidently  the  expression  of  a  kindly,  light-hearted  nature, 


LORD  WROTHAM  51 

that  it  was  impossible  not  to  enjoy  them  as  heartily  as  did  their 
inventor.  He  also  had  the  gift  of  making  himself  completely 
at  home,  in  whatever  company  he  might  find  himself.  His 
visit  to  the  White  House  lasted  about  ten  minutes,  but  by  the 
time  he  and  Browne  set  off  again  on  their  drive  to  the  outly- 
ing parts  of  the  Manor,  he  had  been  conducted  all  over  the 
house,  and  admired  everything  in  it.  And  he  had  managed 
during  that  short  period  to  laugh  and  chat  himself  into  the 
good  graces  of  the  younger  of  his  two  hostesses  to  such  an  ex- 
tent that  she  became  quite  enthusiastic  about  him,  as  she  and 
her  mother  stood  by  the  door  and  watched  them  down  the 
drive  and  out  of  the  gate. 

"  He  really  is  a  delightful  person,  isn't  he,  mother  ?  "  she 
said. 

"  He  has  very  pleasant  manners,"  replied  Mrs.  RedclifFe. 

"  I  have  never  met  an  earl  at  close  quarters  before.  I  am 
quite  sure  now  that  earls  must  be  the  most  attractive  body  of 
people  in  the  kingdom.  My  admiration  for  the  House  of 
Lords,  which  I  never  thought  much  of  before,  has  increased 
enormously.  If  Lady  Wrotham  is  half  as  nice  as  her  son,  I 
am  sure  we  shall  all  like  her  immensely." 

"  I  am  afraid  she  will  hardly  become  so  immediately 
friendly." 

"  At  any  rate,  I  shall  not  stand  so  much  in  awe  of  her  now. 
Mother  dear,  don't  you  think  we  might  go  and  have  tea  with 
Mrs.  Prentice  this  afternoon  ?  I  don't  think  Lord  Wrotham 
will  have  time  to  call  on  her,  and  I  am  sure  she  would  like  to 
hear  what  we  think  of  him." 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  laughed.  "  I  am  afraid  she  will  be  very  dis- 
pleased with  us,"  she  said.  "  I  think  we  will  leave  her  to  find 
out  for  herself  the  honour  that  has  been  done  to  us." 

Mrs.  Prentice  found  it  out  very  shortly,  and  she  was  dis- 
pleased ;  seriously  displeased.  "  It  is  my  belief,"  she  said  to 
her  husband,  ^^  that  Hilda  made  eyes  at  him  from  the  garden. 


52  EXTON  MANOR 

She  and  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  who  might  have  known  better,  had 
planted  themselves  where  they  could  be  seen  from  the  road, 
when  he  and  Mr.  Browne  drove  up.  Martha  Jellicot  saw 
them.  Otherwise,  why  should  he  have  gone  out  of  his  way 
to  call  at  the  White  House,  for  which  there  was  absolutely  no 
reason,  when  he  was  too  pressed  for  time  to  pay  me  the  ordi- 
nary courtesy  of  a  short  visit  ?  It  is  as  I  told  you,  William. 
There  is  a  direct  conspiracy  on  foot  to  treat  you  and  your  holy 
office  with  contempt — through  me  i  and  the  RedclifFes  and 
Mr.  Browne  are  in  it.  I  shall  not  lower  my  dignity  by  mak- 
ing a  complaint,  but  when  Lady  Wrotham  settles  down  here, 
I  shall  take  very  good  care  to  warn  her  of  what  is  going  on." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  will  make  a  good  deal  of  mischief 
when  Lady  Wrotham  settles  down  here,"  retorted  the  Vicar 
in  a  resigned  tone.  He  had  had  a  tiring  day,  and  was  not 
feeling  equal  to  an  active  disputation.  "  It  will  be  very  dis- 
agreeable, and  may  do  an  infinity  of  harm  to  my  work  in  the 
parish.  But  I  suppose  I  must  put  up  with  it.  I  ought  to 
have  learnt  to  do  so  by  this  time." 

Mrs.  Prentice  was  too  full  of  a  sense  of  outraged  dignity 
even  to  give  ear  to  this  speech. 

"  As  for  Mr.  Browne,"  she  said,  "  I  shall  tell  him  what  I 
think  of  him." 


CHAPTER  V 

FRED    PRENTICE 

On  the  day  following  Lord  Wrotham's  visit,  Mrs.  Prentice 
drove  into  the  station  to  meet  her  son,  who  was  to  bestow  the 
light  of  his  presence  on  the  paternal  vicarage  for  the  Easter 
holidays,  and  for  as  long  afterwards  as  he  could  be  induced  to 
do  so.  Mrs.  Prentice  was  accustomed  in  her  excursions 
abroad  to  seat  herself  on  the  front  seat  of  her  wagonette,  and 
to  beguile  the  tediousness  of  a  drive  behind  the  incompetent 
vicarage  horse  by  a  conversation  with  the  vicarage  factotum, 
in  which  she  endeavoured  to  instil  into  that  somewhat  slow- 
witted  functionary  a  just  view  of  the  claims  of  the  Church  of 
England  on  the  adherence  of  all  and  sundry.  For  Tom  Pillie, 
as  his  name  was,  had  been  rescued  from  a  family  of  Method- 
ists in  a  neighbouring  village,  and  still  had  unaccountable 
leanings  towards  the  faith  in  which  he  had  been  brought  up. 
He  had  been  caught  young,  in  the  boot-and-knife  boy  stage, 
and  had  consented  to  undergo  the  rite  of  confirmation  during 
a  temporary  stupor  induced  by  the  profusion  of  arguments 
brought  to  bear  on  him  by  Mrs.  Prentice ;  but  on  awakening 
from  his  trance  he  had  shown  signs  of  backsliding.  Mrs. 
Prentice  still  had  to  work  hard  to  preserve  the  effect  of  her 
original  success,  and  to  extend  it,  but  she  felt  that,  if  she 
could  once  induce  Tom  Pillie  to  undertake  not  to  accompany 
his  family  to  chapel  when  he  paid  them  his  fortnightly  Sunday 
visit,  she  would  have  accomplished  a  glorious  work,  and  repaid 
herself  for  the  suppressed  irritation  which  she  had  to  choke 
down  whenever  her  convincing  statements  were  met  by  the 
obstinate  stupidity  of  her  convert.  "  Whoever  shall  leave 
father  and  mother,"  Mrs.  Prentice  had  quoted,  with  the  rest  of 

53 


54  EXTON  MANOR 

the  passage,  and  it  is  no  wonder  that  she  had  hardly  been  able 
to  conceal  her  impatience  when  Tom  Pillie  had  countered 
with,  "  It  du  say, '  Honour  thy  father  and  mother,'  and  they 
be  good  Christian  people,  a  sight  better  than  most."  It  was 
only  the  happily  remembered  injunction  to  sufFer  fools  gladly 
that  kept  Mrs.  Prentice  from  venting  her  sense  of  his  obsti- 
nate blindness  to  the  truth,  in  a  manner  that  might  have  lost 
her  this  wayward  lamb,  so  carefully  folded. 

On  this  occasion,  however,  Mrs.  Prentice  sat  in  the  back 
part  of  the  wagonette,  and,  leaving  Tom  Pillie  to  the  enjoy- 
ment of  his  own  reflections,  sat  immersed  in  her  own.  That 
these  were  not  altogether  pleasant  might  have  been  gathered 
from  her  face,  which  was  usually  expressive  of  her  inmost 
thoughts.  She  had  sufl^ered  what  she  considered  a  gross  slight 
on  the  previous  day,  and  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  she 
should  forget  it  in  a  hurry.  But  there  was  a  genuine  pleasure 
ahead  of  her,  which  tempered  the  bitterness  of  her  thoughts, 
for  Mrs.  Prentice  was  devoted  to  her  only  child,  and  she  was 
about  to  enjoy  the  gratification  of  his  society  for  the  first  time 
for  some  months. 

When  Fred  Prentice  alighted  from  the  third-class  carriage 
in  which  he  had  travelled  from  Greathampton — he  had  enjoyed 
the  luxury  of  a  Pullman  for  the  greater  part  of  his  journey — 
and  found  his  mother  waiting  for  him  on  the  platform,  it  is 
not  surprising  that  he  greeted  her  warmly,  for  her  face  was 
suffused  with  affection,  and  a  young  man  who  has  certain 
delinquencies  on  his  conscience,  which  make  him  not  alto- 
gether at  ease  in  the  prospect  of  a  parental  interview,  can 
hardly  help  being  touched  by  a  reception  in  which  there  is  no 
trace  of  anything  but  genuine  welcome. 

Fred  Prentice  was  a  good-looking  young  man,  tall  and  well 
set  up,  with  dark,  slightly  waving  hair.  He  had  for  the  most 
part  his  mothers  correct  features,  which  were  vastly  improved 
by  the  substitution  of  his  father's  mouth,  and  the  brown  eyes 


FRED  PRENTICE  55 

of  some  ancestor.  The  resultant  face  was  agreeable  both  in 
contour  and  expression,  but  it  would  have  been  improved  still 
further  if  it  had  possessed  more  signs  of  strength  of  character. 
It  was  almost  too  young  a  face  to  show  marks  of  dissipation, 
unless  of  an  exaggerated  nature,  but  it  looked  tired,  and  as  if 
a  quiet  holiday  in  the  country  would  be  beneficial  to  its  owner. 

The  young  man's  luggage,  from  the  extent  of  which  Mrs. 
Prentice  was  pleased  to  conjecture  that  his  stay  was  not  intended 
to  be  a  short  one,  was  accommodated  by  the  side  of  Tom 
Pillie  in  the  fore  part  of  the  carriage,  and  he  and  his  mother 
took  their  seats  facing  one  another,  where  they  could  talk  in 
subdued  tones  without  being  overheard.  Mrs.  Prentice  put 
her  shabbily  gloved  hand  upon  one  of  his,  resplendently  cov- 
ered with  new  washleather.  "  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  home, 
Freddy  dear,"  she  said.  "  You  won't  be  leaving  us  for  some 
time,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Afraid  I  must  go  on  Tuesday,  mother,"  he  replied  cheer- 
fully. "  I  promised  to  go  on  into  Dorsetshire  to  stay  a  few 
days  with  an  old  friend.  He's  asked  me  so  often,  and  I've 
never  been  able  to  go  before." 

Mrs.  Prentice  looked  woefully  disappointed.  "  I  did  hope 
you  would  have  come  home  for  a  good  long  stay,"  she  said. 
"  We  have  not  seen  anything  of  you  since  Christmas.  And 
now  you  are  no  sooner  here  than  you  are  off  again." 

"  Paridelle,  my  friend,  only  gets  home  for  the  recess — he's 
in  Parliament.  If  I  didn't  go  to  him  now,  I  couldn't  go  at  all. 
And  you  know  I'm  tied  to  town  at  other  times,  mother." 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue  to  say  that  he  was  not  so 
much  tied  but  that  he  could  go  off  visiting  at  other  houses 
than  his  father's,  but  she  would  not  spoil  his  home-coming  by 
complaints.  If  he  had  decided  to  stay  with  her  for  only  four 
days,  she  would  make  the  best  of  the  time,  and  so  treat  him 
that  perhaps  in  the  future  he  would  want  to  come  more  often. 
She  reflected  humbly  that,  compared  with  the  many  fine  houses 


56  EXTON  MANOR 

that  were  open  to  him,  Exton  vicarage  presented  few  attrac- 
tions. It  was  enough  for  her  to  have  him  within  hearing  and 
within  sight.  It  was  not  enough  for  him.  Children  were 
like  that  when  they  grew  up  and  went  out  into  the  world. 
Their  parents  had  to  fall  into  line  and  be  judged  by  their 
power  of  affording  entertainment,  in  just  the  same  way  as 
other  hosts  and  hostesses  were  judged.  It  would  hardly  mend 
matters  to  put  in  a  claim  for  gratitude,  or  any  unusual  con- 
sideration. 

"  Who  is  the  friend  with  whom  you  are  going  to  stay  ? " 
she  asked. 

"  George  Paridelle.  He  was  at  Oxford  with  me — a  year 
senior.  He  has  done  well — made  quite  a  decent  income  at 
the  bar  the  year  after  he  was  called,  and  will  go  right  ahead. 
He  got  into  Parliament  at  a  bye-election." 

"  Has  he  got  a  place  in  Dorsetshire  ?  " 

*'  His  father  has — a  famous  place — Trix worth  Court. 
Geoi^e  will  come  in  for  it.  Lucky  beggar;  everything  done 
for  him.     Plenty  of  money  too." 

"  But  he  has  done  something  for  himself?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.     He  works  like  a  nigger." 

"  I  do  hope,  Freddy  dear,  that  you  are  working  hard.  It  is 
so  important  for  you  to  do  so,  you  know.  Your  father  and  I 
can't  do  much  for  you — not  nearly  so  much  as  we  should  like. 
It  all  depends  upon  yourself.  I'm  sure  you  have  got  brains 
as  good  as  anybody's,  if  you  will  use  them." 

"  Don't  you  worry  about  me,  mother.  I  shall  get  called 
all  right.     That's  all  I'm  out  for  at  present." 

"There  is  one  thing,  Freddy  dear,  that  I  want  to  warn  you 
about.  I'm  afraid  your  father  is  seriously  annoyed.  The 
tailor's  bill,  you  know." 

The  young  man's  face  grew  dark.  "  What  tailor's  bill  ?  " 
he  asked  shortly. 

"  One  was  sent  in  to  your  father,  for  over  eighty  pounds." 


FRED  PRENTICE  57 

He  gave  an  exclamation  of  annoyance.  *'  Now  that's  really 
too  bad,"  he  said.  "  I  won't  have  anything  more  to  do  with 
those  people.  What  do  they  mean  by  sending  in  my  bills  to 
father  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  it  is  because  he  paid  the  last  one.  You  know 
it  is  heavy,  Freddy  dear.  I  own  I  was  surprised — but  pos- 
sibly there  is  some  mistake." 

"  No,  there's  no  mistake ;  except  that  London  tailors  seem 
to  think  they've  got  a  right  to  rob  you.  I  had  to  get  some 
clothes." 

'^  Yes,  I  know.  Of  course,  I  like  to  see  you  well  dressed. 
But  you  have  had  such  a  lot  of  clothes  during  the  last  few 
years,  and  everything  was  paid  up  a  twelvemonth  ago.  I 
should  have  thought  that  you  could  hardly  have  wanted  to 
spend  eighty  pounds  again  in  one  year — at  a  tailor's  alone. 
And  the  charges  are  so  exorbitant — something  like  sixteen 
pounds  for  a  dress  suit,  and  I've  seen  quite  good  ones  adver- 
tised for  four  guineas.  Couldn't  you  change  your  tailor  and 
go  to  a  cheaper  one  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  going  to  change  him  all  right,  but  it's  no  use 
going  to  cheap  tailors.  The  clothes  don't  fit,  and  you  don't 
wear  them.  It's  much  dearer  in  the  long  run.  What  did 
father  say  when  he  got  the  bill  ?  " 

"  He  said  he  couldn't  possibly  pay  it." 

"  I  don't  want  him  to  pay  it.  But  I  suppose  he'll  want  to 
talk  about  it.  It's  very  annoying  that  this  sort  of  thing  should 
happen  to  spoil  a  visit  which  I'd  been  so  looking  forward 
to." 

"  That's  what  I  feel,  Freddy  dear.  It's  delightful  to  see  you 
again,  and  I  don't  want  the  time  you  are  with  us  spoilt.  Just 
talk  it  over  with  your  father,  and  tell  him  that  it  will  be  the 
last  piece  of  extravagance.  Then  it  will  all  be  over,  and  we 
shall  enjoy  ourselves  together.  I  feel  sure  that  you  have  really 
turned  over  a  new  leaf,  and,  as  far  as  I'm  concerned,  you  will 


58  KXTON  MANOR 

hear  nothing  more  of  it.  Only  I  just  wanted  to  warn  you 
that  your  father  is  annoyed." 

Thus  did  Mrs.  Prentice  fulfill  her  promise  to  take  a  serious 
view  of  her  son's  tendency  to  debt  and  extravagance.  What 
grounds  she  had  for  her  assurance  that  he  had  turned  over  a 
new  leaf  in  these  matters  it  would  be  difficult  to  say,  but  it  is 
quite  certain  that  she  could  not  have  improved  matters  by 
scolding  him,  and  possibly  her  instinct  towards  leniency  was 
justified. 

'The  young  man  sat  silent  and  rather  glum  for  a  minute  or 
two,  and  then  with  a  mental  shake  threw  off  the  unpleasant 
subject  from  his  mind,  as  it  was  his  wont  to  throw  off  all  un- 
pleasantness, until  it  faced  him  with  a  peremptory  summons  to 
attention. 

"  Who  is  down  here  now  ?  "  he  asked.  *'  Is  your  beautiful 
Mrs.  O'Keefe  to  be  seen  at  last  ?  " 

*■*■  No,  she  went  to  Ireland  yesterday  to  stay  with  Lord 
Ballyshannon,  and  others  of  her  relations.  She  will  be  away  for 
a  month." 

"She  is  always  away  when  I  come  down.  I  suppose  the 
RedclifFes  are  at  home." 

Mrs.  Prentice  pursed  her  lips.  "Yes,  Mrs.  RedclifFe  and 
Hilda  are  at  home,"  she  said.  "  If  I  were  you,  Fred,  I  should 
not  go  to  the  White  House  more  than  I  could  help." 

"  Why  not,  mother  ?  I  like  Mrs.  RedclifFe  ;  and  as  for 
Hilda,  she  and  I  have  been  pals  ever  since  they  first  came  here, 
and  she  was  a  kid.     What  is  the  matter  with  them  ?  " 

"  Hilda  was  not  so  very  young  when  they  came,"  replied 
Mrs.  Prentice.  "  She  was  sixteen.  She  is  grown  up  now — 
rather  too  grown  up,  I  should  say,  for  I  never  met  a  girl  of  her 
age  with  more  self-assurance.  I  know  you  only  like  her  as 
an  old  playmate,  but  I  should  not  be  at  all  surprised  if  she  had 
quite  other  ideas  in  her  head,  and  that  Mrs.  RedclifFe  shared 
them." 


FRED  PRENTICE  59 

"  I'm  such  a  catch,  ain't  I  ?  My  dear  mother,  you're 
talking  absolute  nonsense.  I'm  quite  sure  that  Hilda 
wouldn't  have  a  word  to  say  to  me  if  I  were  to  be  foolish 
enough  to — to  want  her  to.  What — er — makes  you  think 
differently  ?  " 

•■*  Never  mind  ;  but  I  do  think  differently.  And,  if  we  are 
to  speak  plainly,  I  should  not  consider  Hilda  Redcliffe  a 
suitable — well,  match  for  you.  The  Redcliffes  are  nobodies, 
so  far  as  I  know." 

"  Well,  mother,  you  really  do  say  the  most  extraordinary 
things.  As  if  the  idea  of  marriage — with  Hilda  Redcliffe, 
or  anybody  else — had  entered  my  head  yet !  I  may  be  a  fool 
in  some  ways,  but  I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  to  be  thinking  of 
marrying  and  settling  down  at  twenty-three,  with  all  my  way 
to  make." 

"  I  hope  not.  But  whatever  you  may  be  thinking  of,  other 
people  may  have  different  ideas.  I  think  it  my  duty  to  give 
you  a  word  of  warning.  And  on  my  own  account  I  should 
be  glad  if  you  had  as  little  as  possible  to  do  with  the  Red- 
cliffes while  you  are  here.  It  is  my  earnest  wish  to  live  in 
charity  with  all  my  neighbours,  but  it  is  the  most  difficult 
thing  to  carry  out  in  practice.  I  sometimes  think  that  people 
take  a  delight  in  stirring  up  strife  and  giving  occasion  for 
offence." 

"I  can't  imagine  Mrs.  Redcliffe  stirring  up  strife.  What 
has  she  been  doing  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  you  have  not  heard  the  great  Exton  news — 
that  Lady  Wrotham  is  coming  to  live  at  the  Abbey  ?  " 

"  By  Jove,  no  !     That  is  news." 

"Young  Lord  Wrotham  was  down  here  yesterday.  I 
don't  think  he  gets  on  well  with  his  mother,  from  all  I  have 
heard,  and  I  dare  say  he  wanted  to  have  a  good  look  round 
his  property  before  she  came  here." 

"  Did  you  see  him  ?  " 


6o  EXTON  MANOR 

"Not  to  speak  to.     Mr.    Browne,  who   is  now  hand  in 

glove  with  the  RedclifFes " 

"  He  always  has  been,  hasn't  he  ?  " 

"  Not,  as  far  as  I  am  aware,  in  the  way  of  making  Mrs. 
RedclifFe  his  first  confidante  in  everything  that  goes  on  in 
the  place.  At  any  rate,  when  he  brought  the  news  of  Lady 
Wrotham's  coming  here,  what  must  he  do  but  fly  off  at  once 
to  Mrs.  Redcliffe  with  it,  and  she,  of  course,  was  only  too 
pleased  to  let  me  know  that  she  had  the  information  which 
I  had  not.  And  yesterday  there  was  no  word  whatever  said 
of  Lord  Wrotham's  coming  down  for  the  day.  What  was 
my  surprise  to  learn  at  about  half-past  twelve  o'clock  from 
Pringle's  man,  when  he  brought  the  bread,  that  he  was  at 
the  office  with  Mr.  Browne!  Of  course  \^  or  your  father, 
ought  to  have  been  told,  so  that  we  might  have  shown  him 
some  hospitality.  I  did  what  I  could.  I  rushed  down  to  the 
village  to  ask  him  to  lunch,  and  was  just  in  time  to  see  him 
drive  away.  I  sent  an  invitation  up  to  the  home-farm,  and 
received  a  reply  from  Mr.  Browne  that  '  his  lordship  '  was 
lunching  with  him.  Merely  that.  I  don't  know  when  I've 
felt  so  annoyed.  And  I  stayed  in  all  the  afternoon,  thinking 
that  Mr.  Browne  would  at  least  bring  him  to  call.  No  such 
thing.  They  drove  down  to  the  Manor,  and  he  went  back 
by  the  five  o'clock  train." 

"I  don't  suppose  he  would  have  much  time  for  calling, 
if  he  just  came  down  for  the  day,  for  a  look  round." 

"  He  had  time,  at  any  rate,  to  call  on  the  Redcliffes. 
They  took  very  good  care  to  be  in  the  garden  as  he  drove 
up  the  hill,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  Hilda  made  eyes  at  him." 

"  Oh,  come  now,  mother ;  you  know  quite  well  she 
wouldn't  do  anything  of  the  sort." 

"  I  don't  know  it,  Freddy.  I  wish  I  did.  At  any  rate, 
he  was  invited  in,  and  I  have  no  doubt  made  himself  very 
pleasant.     I    shall   be   having  Mrs.  Redcliffe  down  to  crow 


FRED  PRENTICE  6i 

over  me  because  he  went  to  see  her  and  did  not  come  to 
see  me.  I  shall  know  what  to  say  to  her.  I  think  it  most 
contemptible  to  make  a  dead  set  in  that  way  at  a  young  man 
just  because  he  has  got  a  title." 

Fred  laughed.  "  Poor  old  mummy,"  he  said.  "  I  shouldn't 
worry  about  it,  if  I  were  you.  I  don't  think  Wrotham  is 
a  very  estimable  character,  from  what  I've  heard.  He's 
always  about  with  his  cousin,  Laurence  Syde,  who  sponges 
on  him.  They've  got  through  a  tremendous  lot  of  money 
between  them.  It's  the  common  talk  that  Wrotham  will 
be  in  a  bit  of  a  fix  now  he  has  succeeded." 

"  How  can  that  be,  Freddy  ?  He  comes  in  for  all  his 
father's  property,  and  Lord  Wrotham  was  a  rich  man." 

"  Yes,  but  he  was  so  severe  that  Kemsing  dared  not  go 
to  him  about  his  debts,  and  he  raised  a  heap  of  money  on  his 
expectations,  at  a  ruinous  rate  of  interest.  He'll  have  to  pay 
up  now,  and  he'll  be  dipped  for  a  long  time.  Of  course,  he'll 
work  it  ofF  in  time,  but  he'll  have  to  go  a  bit  slower  than  he 
has  been  doing  lately." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  that ;  very  sorry  indeed.  The 
Wrothams  have  not  troubled  Exton  much  with  their  presence, 
but,  naturally,  one  takes  an  interest  in  the  family,  and  one 
hopes  to  be  able  to  make  a  friend  of  Lady  Wrotham,  now  she 
is  coming  to  live  among  us.  It  is  well  to  know  all  that  one 
can  about  them.  There  will  be  no  other  woman  with  whom 
she  can  associate  on  intimate  terms  here  but  myself.  Mrs. 
O'Keefe  is  too  young ;  and  although  Mrs.  RedclifFe  may  try, 
I  should  think  Lady  Wrotham  would  be  able  to  see  through 
that  sort  of  thing  clearly  enough." 

"  My  dear  mother,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  in  that  way 
of  Mrs.  Redcliffe.  You  know  quite  well  she  doesn't  deserve 
it,  and  it  is  not  nice  to  hear  you." 

"  I  shall  say  no  more,  Freddy,"  replied  his  mother.  "  But 
we  shall  see  who  is  right," 


62  EXXON  MANOR 

Thev  drove  through  the  village,  and  up  to  the  vicarage, 
receiving  friendly  greeting  from  those  whom  they  met  on  the 
way,  for  Fred  Prentice  had  lived  the  greater  part  of  his  life  at 
Exton,  and  had  made  many  friends. 

"Jolly  glad  to  get  home  again,"  he  said,  as  thty  turned 
in  at  the  vicarage  gate.  "  I  believe,  if  I  were  a  country 
gentleman,  I  should  be  quite  content  to  live  on  my  place  all 
the  year  round.  I  should  like  to  be  surrounded  by  faces  I 
know.     Ah,  I  wish  I  could  change  places  with  Wrotham." 

Mr.  Prentice  gave  his  son  a  welcome,  but  it  was  evident 
that  the  ^ir  would  have  to  be  cleared  before  that  amount  of 
goodwill  which  is  requisite  for  the  happiness  of  three  people 
living  together  in  a  house  should  reign  at  Exton  vicarage. 

"  I'd  better  get  it  over  to-night,"  said  Fred  to  himself,  as  he 
went  up-stairs  to  dress  for  dinner.  "  Confound  those  people 
— and  confound  myself  for  an  extravagant  ass.  Still,  it's  my 
own  money,  and  I  ought  to  have  the  handling  of  it.  Then  this 
sort  of  thing  wouldn't  happen." 

The  room,  which  had  been  his  ever  since  early  childhood, 
was  a  large  one  looking  east  over  the  garden  and  a  slope  of 
quiet  meadow  to  the  river  and  the  trees  beyond.  It  was  shab- 
bily furnished,  but  contained  many  of  his  boyhood's  treasures  ; 
a  full-rigged  ship  on  the  chest  of  drawers,  a  row  of  shelves 
containing  school  prizes,  and  a  large  collection  of  stories  of  ad- 
venture, his  baptismal  and  confirmation  cards,  framed  and  pre- 
sented by  his  mother,  some  once  highly  prized  engravings  of 
dogs,  photographs  of  school  and  college  groups,  with  faded 
caps  hung  as  trophies  on  their  frames,  a  case  of  stuffed  birds, 
brought  down  in  years  gone  by  by  a  schoolboy  catapult,  and 
stuffed  by  a  village  naturalist  long  since  deaA,  whose  knowl- 
edge had  been  greater  than  his  skill,  fishing-rods,  disused 
cricket  bats,  and  other  implements  of  sport,  and  many  other 
odds  and  ends  of  little  value  ;  but  none  of  them  that  had  not 
Drought  with  it  a  thrill  of  ]py  when  first  acquired,  and  after- 


FRED  PRENTICE  63 

ivards  many  hours  of  pleasure ;  none  of  them  that  were  not 
eloquent  of  the  happy  days  of  boyhood,  when  the  heart  was 
light,  and  the  cares  of  life  had  not  begun  to  wreathe  their 
darkling  mists  around  innocent  pleasure.  Fred  sighed  as  he 
looked  round  on  the  familiar  possessions.  He  had  travelled  so 
far  from  the  days  of  which  they  spoke  to  him,  and  yet  he  was 
removed  by  so  few  years  from  those  days.  The  accessories  of 
his  present  pursuits,  which  he  kept  in  his  London  rooms,  had 
cost  a  great  deal  more  than  these  discarded  treasures  of  his 
boyhood.  He  gave  himself  what  he  wanted  in  that  way,  but 
all  of  them  together  had  not  afforded  him  the  gratification  he 
had  received  from  the  poorest  of  the  things  in  this  room.  He 
put  together  and  handled  the  fishing-rod  which  old  Sir  Joseph 
had  given  him  on  his  thirteenth  birthday,  together  with  per- 
mission to  fish  as  much  as  he  liked  in  certain  portions  of  his 
river.  The  old  days  came  back  to  him,  and  the  freshness  of 
the  early  morning  on  which  he  had  first  gone  out  to  try  his 
prowess,  with  what  keenness  of  delight  he  well  remembered. 
His  maturer  pleasures  afforded  him  no  such  blissful  thrills. 
He  sighed  again  as  he  took  the  rod  to  pieces  and  put  it  back  in 
its  place. 

When  Mrs.  Prentice  left  the  dining-room  after  dinner,  Fred 
said  to  his  father,  "  I  hear  that  my  tailor  has  sent  in  a  bill  to 
you,  father.  I  don't  know  why  he  should  bother  you  about 
my  affairs.     Will  you  let  me  have  it .''  " 

The  Vicar  cleared  his  throat.  He  had  been  intending  to 
speak  to  his  son  on  this  subject  upon  the  first  opportunity 
that  presented  itself,  but,  lapped  in  after-dinner  peace,  had 
thought  he  might  as  well  put  it  off  until  a  later  hour  of  the 
evening.  He  had  enjoyed  Fred's  conversation  and  the  breath 
of  the  outside  world  which  he  had  brought  with  him,  and  was 
not  feeling  quite  so  severe  towards  his  son  as  he  had  done. 
Still,  if  it  must  come  now,  it  must,  and  he  nerved  himself 
to  speak  his  mind.     "  What  shall  you  do  with  it  when  you 


64  EXTON  MANOR 

have  got  it  ?  "  he  asked  dryly.  "  Have  you  got  the  money 
to  pay  ?  " 

"  Well,  no — not  yet,"  replied  Fred.  "  Still,  one  doesn't 
expect  to  have  to  pay  a  tailor's  bill  within  a  twelvemonth, 
and " 

"  And,  if  it  can  be  allowed  to  run  on,  and,  of  course,  to 
increase,  for  another  two  years  you  will  be  able  to  discharge 
it  with  the  remnants  of  your  legacy.  I  suppose  that  is  the 
idea  ?  " 

"  I  hadn't  thought  of  that  in  that  way.  I  spend  a  certain 
amount  a  year  on  clothes,  and  if  I  don't  pay  all  of  it  this  year, 
I  shall  next,  or  the  year  after." 

The  Vicar  thought  for  a  moment.  *'  You're  not  a  fool, 
Fred,"  he  said,  "  and  you  know  you're  talking  nonsense. 
I've  no  doubt  you  argued  in  just  the  same  way  to  yourself  be- 
fore, and  the  result  was  a  pack  of  bills  which  it  took  half  of 
your  legacy  to  pay  off.  Exactly  the  same  thing  will  happen 
again,  and  you'll  start  the  world  with  nothing  at  all  to  fall  back 
upon.  I  am  not  going  to  scold  you  about  it.  You  are 
twenty-three,  and  quite  old  enough  to  discipline  yourself  with- 
out schooling  from  me.  If  you  won't,  I  can't  help  you.  But 
I  just  want  to  put  clearly  before  you  what  it  is  you  are  doing. 
You  are  having  a  very  good  time  now,  I've  no  doubt.  But 
what  are  you  going  to  do  when  this  money  is  gone,  as  it  will 
go  before  the  two  years  are  out,  if  you  go  on  at  this  rate  ? 
You  will  be  called  to  the  bar  in  a  year.  But  you  will  be  a 
good  deal  more  fortunate  than  most  young  barristers  if  you 
make  an  income  out  of  your  profession  for  some  years  after 
that,  and  you  won't  make  an  income  out  of  it  at  all  if  you 
don't  give  your  attention  to  it,  and  refuse  to  allow  your 
pleasures  to  stand  in  the  way  of  your  work.  What  are  you 
going  to  live  on  in  the  meantime  ?  You  will  have  two  hun- 
dred a  year  as  long  as  I'm  spared.  If  you  can't  train  yourself 
to  live  on  that  now,  when  are  you  going  to  ?     It  will  be  a  great 


FRED  PRENTICE  65 

deal  harder  in  two  or  three  years'  time.  You  are  laying  up  a 
very  hard  time  for  yourself.  It  is  not  as  if  you  were  prepar- 
ing for  some  lucrative  occupation.  At  the  best,  it  will  be  a 
struggle  for  some  years." 

This  calm  line  of  remonstrance  was  more  difficult  to  meet 
than  the  heated  condemnation  for  which  Fred  had  prepared 
himself.  The  reasonableness  appealed  to  him,  for  his  brain 
responded  to  reason,  although  his  inclinations  led  him  perforce 
to  ignore  it.  "  I  suppose  I'm  not  tied  down  to  the  bar,"  he 
said.  "  If  something  else  turned  up,  I  should — er — consult 
you  as  to  whether  I  hadn't  better  take  it." 

"  Quite  so.  I  have  always  had  such  a  possibility  in  my 
mind.  It  is  a  good  thing  to  be  called  to  the  bar,  in  any  case. 
You  might  look  upon  it  as  the  completion  of  a  good  and  very 
expensive  education.  But  what  you  don't  seem  to  realize  is 
that  you  are  practically  tying  yourself  down  to  that  one  pro- 
fession. I'm  a  priest ;  but  I  have  kept  my  eyes  open,  and  I 
can  see  clearly  enough  that  opportunities  for  making  money 
very  seldom  present  themselves  to  those  who  have  got  none  at 
their  backs.  And  on  the  other  hand,  a  sum  such  as  you  would 
have  had  at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  if  you  had  not  dissipated  it 
— or  half  of  it — would  almost  certainly  have  helped  you  in 
that  way.  I  remember  reading  somewhere  that  one  of  the 
great  American  millionaires  had  said  that  for  a  business  man 
to  make  a  large  fortune  was  easy  enough  after  he  had  got  to- 
gether his  first  thousand  dollars,  or  whatever  it  was,  but  that 
to  do  that  was  extraordinarily  difficult.  Of  course,  that  par- 
ticular sort  of  business  aptitude  isn't  found  everywhere.  I'm 
quite  sure  you  haven't  got  it,  for  instance.  But  I  have  very 
little  doubt  that  your  legacy  would  have  been  enough  to  buy 
you  a  partnership  in  some  business  that  you  might  have  been 
able  to  take  an  interest  in  and  increase,  or  to  give  you  a  start  in 
some  other  way.  I  believe  that  what  is  left  would  do  it,  if  it  is 
not  broken  in  upon  any  further.     So  you  see,  my  boy,  that  you 


66  EXTON  MANOR 

are  throwing  away  your  chances  with  both  hands,  and  all  for  a 
year  or  two's  gratification,  which  I  feel  sure  doesn't  really 
satisfy  you." 

Fred's  ambition  was  fired  by  the  story  of  the  American 
millionaire.  He  thought  that  he  had  that  sort  of  business 
aptitude.  It  was  quite  true  that  his  present  life  did  not  satisfy 
him,  however  much  he  might  have  enjoyed  it  if  it  had  not 
been  haunted  by  the  ghosts  of  the  future.  In  a  flash  he 
saw  himself  living  laborious  days  and  nights,  steeped  in 
financial  operations,  piling  up  gold  upon  gold,  becoming  a 
rich  man — a  very  rich  man,  with  houses  and  land,  horses  and 
motor-cars,  wine  and  books  and  travel,  dispensing  a  joyous, 
open-handed  hospitality,  and  all  his  work  behind  him.  What 
could  it  matter  giving  up  a  few  years  to  unremitting  toil  ? 
He  was  still  young.  By  the  time  he  was  thirty,  even  before, 
he  might  have  everything  his  soul  enjoyed,  and  the  fulcrum 
by  which  he  was  to  gain  these  delights  was  the  round  plum  of 
one  thousand  pounds  which  was  yet  left  to  him  intact.  His 
father  was  right.  What  a  thrice-begotten  fool  he  would  be 
to  throw  it  away,  as  he  had  thrown  away  the  rest.  Certainly 
he  would  not  do  so. 

He  did  not  consider,  being  without  the  experience  that 
would  have  taught  him,  that  money  comes  to  those  who  desire 
it  for  its  own  sake,  but  seldom  to  those  who  love  to  spend  it. 
And  he  forgot  other  things.  But  for  the  present  his  father's 
words  had  their  desired  effect.  "  I  have  been  a  fool,  father," 
he  said.  "  I  said  so  a  year  ago,  and,  of  course,  I  can't  deny 
that  I  haven't  quite  left  off  being  a  fool  yet.  However,  I'll 
pull  up  now — I  will,  really — and  I  hope  you  won't  have  oc- 
casion to  complain  of  me  again." 

The  Vicar's  face  expressed  gratification.  "  Very  well, 
then,  my  boy,"  he  said;  "I'll  pay  this  bill — I'm  afraid  it 
must  be  with  your  money.  If  we  pay  it  now  we  shall  get  a 
good  discount.     And  you  had  better  send  me  any  others  you 


FRED  PRENTICE  67 

have  contracted.  We'll  make  another  start,  and  there  won't 
be  anything  in  the  way  of  your  rearranging  your  life  accord- 
ing to  your  actual  income  when  you  get  back  to  town.  It 
won't  be  difficult,  if  you  make  a  plan  and  stick  to  it.  Pay 
ready  money  for  everything,  and  don't  have  a  single  bill  out- 
standing.     Now  we'd  better  go  in  to  your  mother." 


CHAPTER  VI 

GOOD    FRIDAY 

The  day  after  Fred  Prentice's  home-coming  was  Good 
Friday.  It  was  celebrated  on  this  year  at  Exton  by  the  in- 
auguration of  a  three  hours*  service,  at  which  the  Vicar,  not 
having  been  able  to  secure  the  assistance  of  an  outside 
preacher,  gave  the  addresses  himself.  The  subject  was 
broached  between  Fred  and  his  mother  as  they  strolled  round 
the  garden  together  after  breakfast. 

"  I  feel  it  is  a  great  step  forward,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice. 
"  The  devotional  life  of  Exton  badly  requires  deepening.  I 
have  spared  no  pains  in  getting  a  congregation  together,  and  if 
we  can  only — er " 

"  Poll  the  number  of  votes  that  have  been  promised,"  sug- 
gested Fred. 

"  Pray  do  not  speak  profanely,  Freddy,"  replied  his  mother. 
*'  I  hope  there  will  be  a  good  gathering.  Have  you  ever  been 
to  a  three  hours'  service  before  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  went  to  St.  Paul's  when  I  was  in  London  at 
Easter,  two  years  ago.  We  had  a  fine  preacher — I  don't 
know  who  he  was,  but  he  was  worth  listening  to.  Still,  even 
then,  it  was  too  much  for  me." 

"  How  do  you  mean — too  much  for  you  ?  " 

"  Too  much  of  a  strain.  It  is  a  service  that  only  people, 
as  you  say,  with  the  devotional  spirit  strongly  developed, 
ought  to  go  to.  You  won't  expect  me  to  go  to-day, 
mother  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  Fred,  I  hope  you  will.  It  can  do  you  nothing 
Out  good." 

**  My  dear  mother,  I  really  can't  listen  to  father  for  three 

68 


GOOD  FRIDAY  69 

hours  on  end.  No  one  ought  to  be  asked  to.  Father  has  no 
end  of  common-sense,  but  when  he  gets  into  the  pulpit  he 
seems  to  lose  it  all.  It  is  church,  church,  all  the  time.  He 
never  gives  you  anything  to  think  about." 

Mrs.  Prentice  expressed  herself  pained  by  this  freedom  of 
speech.  "  I  think  your  father's  sermons  are  just  what  are 
wanted  in  a  country  village,"  she  said.  "They  are  simple 
and  direct.  The  peoplie  are  told  exactly  what  the  Church 
teaches,  and  what  it  demands  of  them.  I  don't  know  what 
else  you  can  expect  him  to  preach,  or  what  more  you  want. 
Besides,  preaching  is  not  everything.  I  should  be  very  sorry 
if  the  Church  were  to  imitate  the  Dissenters  in  that  respect, 
and  place  the  sermon  above  worship." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  the  Dissenters,  but  good 
preaching  is  the  only  thing  I  go  to  church  for.  I  do  go  to 
church,  nearly  always,  once  on  Sunday.  Lots  of  people  don't 
now — quite  good  people — and  I  should  think  very  few  men 
in  my  circumstances.  But  I've  got  to  have  a  sermon  if  I  do 
go — and  a  jolly  good  sermon  too.  I  think  it's  nothing  less 
than  impudence  the  way  some  fellows  get  up  into  the  pulpit 
and  reel  off  a  lot  of  worn-out  rubbish  which  they  haven't 
given  a  moment's  thought  to.  If  a  writer  in  a  newspaper 
wants  to  persuade  you  about  something,  he  has  got  to  put  all 
he  knows  into  it,  or  you  simply  don't  read  him.  And  yet 
here  are  these  parsons,  whose  business  it  is  to  persuade  peo- 
ple about  the  most  important  thing  in  life,  and  they  won't 
take  the  trouble  to  get  hold  of  an  idea.  Of  course,  they 
know  you've  got  to  listen  to  them,  and  I  suppose  that's  why 
they  think  anything  will  do.  If  you  could  get  up  and  go  out 
when  you  are  getting  a  lot  of  poor  stuff,  which  you've  heard 
a  thousand  times  before,  chucked  at  your  head,  they  might  get 
a  lesson,  and  begin  to  take  some  pains." 

What  Mrs.  Prentice  would  have  said  in  answer  to  this 
revolutionary  attack  must  be  imagined,  for  the  Vicar  stepped 


70  EXTON  MANOR 

out  of  the  French  windows  of  his  study  at  that  moment, 
equipped  for  the  educational  fray.  "  I'm  just  off  to  the 
school,"  he  said.     "  It  is  time  you  got  ready,  Agatha." 

Mrs.  Prentice  hurried  indoors,  and  Fred  said,  "  Do  you 
mind  if  I  don't  come  to  the  three  hours'  service,  father  ?  I'll 
come  at  eleven  o'clock." 

The  Vicar  looked  rather  disappointed,  but  he  said,  "  Don't 
come  if  you  don't  think  it  would  help  you,  my  boy.  But 
there  won't  be  any  lunch  here.  Your  mother  and  I  are  just 
going  to  have  something  between  the  services." 

"  Oh,  I'll  get  old  Browne  to  give  me  lunch — or  some- 
body," said  Fred,  and  so  it  was  settled.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Prentice  went  off  to  their  duties,  and  he  was  left  to  his  own 
thoughts  in  the  sunny  quiet  of  the  vicarage  garden. 

When  the  morning  service  was  over,  Fred  and  his  mother 
found  themselves  alongside  Mrs.  Redcliffe  and  Hilda  as  they 
came  out  of  church.  There  were  greetings,  cordial  between 
the  Redcliffes  and  Fred,  but  perfunctory  from  Mrs.  Prentice, 
who  wore  an  air  of  prim  seclusion  until  they  had  cleared  the 
churchyard  gates,  when  she  still  spoke  as  little  as  possible, 
and  in  whispers,  as  one  setting  an  example  which  she  hoped, 
though  hardly  expected,  would  be  followed. 

Browne  joined  them,  a  large  pink  and  red  figure  in  a  straw 
hat  and  a  premature  flannel  suit,  shook  hands  warmly  with 
Fred,  and  lauded  the  weather. 

"  I'm  coming  to  lunch  with  you,  old  man,  if  you'll 
have  me,"  Fred  said.  "  Father  and  mother  are  going  to 
church." 

"  Mr.  Browne  is  going  to  lunch  with  me,"  said  Mrs.  Red- 
cliffe.    "You  must  come  too,  Fred." 

"  You  are  not  going  to  the  three  hours'  service  ?  "  was 
wrested  from  Mrs.  Prentice. 

"  Hilda  is  going,"  replied  Mrs.  Redcliffe.  "  I  am  not 
very  well,  and  it  would  be  too  great  a  tax  upon  me." 


GOOD  FRIDAY  71 

"It  is  a  tax,  of  course,  in  one  sense,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice, 
"I  am  not  very  well,  either,  but  I  would  not  miss  it  for  any- 
thing.    I  am  glad,  at  any  rate,  that  Hilda  is  coming." 

"  I  have  changed  my  mind,"  said  Hilda.  "  I  shall  stay 
with  you,  mother." 

Mrs.  Prentice  closed  her  lips.  She  would  have  liked  to 
glare  at  the  speaker,  in  response  to  the  obvious  challenge  in 
her  tone,  but  refused  herself  the  luxury.  With  a  curt  bow, 
she  departed  on  her  homeward  way,  leaving  Fred  to  walk 
up  the  hill  with  the  others. 

"  Mother  is  rather  tired,"  he  said,  half-apologetically. 
"She  has  been  doing  a  lot  of  fasting,  and  that  kind  of  thing." 

"It  hasn't  improved  her  temper,"  muttered  Browne,  who 
had  fallen  behind  with  Hilda. 

"  Of  course,  she  is  interfering  and  impertinent,"  said  Hilda, 
in  the  same  low  tone.  "  But  I  think  Fred  is  quite  right  to 
defend  his  mother." 

"  Oh,  rather  !  "  said  Browne. 

"  I  hope  you  are  going  to  stay  with  us  for  some  time, 
Fred,"  Mrs.  RedclifFe  was  saying.  "  We  don't  see  much  of 
you  now." 

"  I'm  going  to  stay  till  Tuesday,"  said  Fred.  "  Then  I'm 
going  on  to  a  friend." 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  she  said, 
"Your  mother  has  been  looking  forward  very  much  to  having 
you  with  her.  It  is  rather  a  pity  that  you  must  pay  another 
visit  so  soon." 

"  Yes  ;  I  rather  wish  I  had  put  it  ofF  for  a  bit.  Still,  I 
shall  be  able  to  come  down  again  soon." 

"  That  will  be  nice.  It  is  rather  a  sad  time  for  us  mothers, 
Fred,  when  our  children  begin  to  have  more  interests  apart 
from  us  than  those  we  can  share." 

"  Yes  j  I  suppose  so.  Dear  old  mother  !  I'll  come  down 
for  a  week  or  ten  days  at  Whitsuntide." 


72 


EXTON  MANOR 


"  In  spite  of  all  tempiations.  You  must  remember  that 
you  have  undertaken  to  do  so.  Home  ties  don't  last  for  ever, 
but  we  can  replace  them  with  others  until  we  get  on  in  years } 
then  we  become  dependent.  Now  that  we  have  got  you  here, 
Fred,  we  must  show  our  appreciation  of  your  visit.  Hilda 
and  I  have  been  talking  over  a  picnic  at  Warren's  Hard  on 
Monday.  The  weather  is  so  warm,  and  seems  so  settled,  that 
I  think  we  might  risk  it.  What  do  you  say,  you  and  Mr. 
Browne,  to  rowing  us  down  ?  I  hope  your  father  and  mother 
will  come.  That  will  make  six  of  us — just  a  boat-load.  We 
will  lunch  in  the  open  if  it  is  as  warm  as  this,  and  ask 
Saunders  for  a  room  if  it  becomes  too  cold." 

"It  will  be  jolly,"  said  Fred.  "Thanks  very  much,  Mrs. 
RedclifFe.     I'll  ask  father  and  mother." 

"  I  will  write  a  note,  which  you  can  take  down  this  after- 
noon. I  forgot  Captain  Turner.  I  must  ask  him  ;  but  there 
will  still  be  room.  Our  little  circle  has  become  rather  small, 
with  poor  Sir  Joseph  gone,  and  the  Lodge  still  unlet,  and  Mrs. 
O'Keefe  away." 

**  I  hear  that  old  Lady  Wrotham  intends  to  settle  down 
at  Exton.     Do  you  know  when  she  is  coming  ?  " 

"  Soon,  I  believe.     Let  us  ask  Mr.  Browne." 

Browne,  appealed  to,  gave  a  date  ten  days  or  so  ahead. 
"  The  house  is  to  be  cleaned  down  a  bit,"  he  said.  "  We 
begin  on  Monday.  But  there  won't  be  much  to  do.  By  the 
bye,  I've  another  piece  of  news  for  you.  I  believe  I've  found 
a  tenant  for  the  Lodge." 

"  You  have  told  us  that  so  many  times,"  said  Hilda. 
"  I'm  afraid  I  shan't  believe  it  till  I  see  the  house  occupied." 

"  Well,  I  own  it  isn't  quite  settled  yet.  But  the  people 
are  coming  to  look  over  it  to-morrow.  And  it  seems  to  be 
what  they  want.'* 

"  Who  are  they  ?  "  inquired  Fred. 

"  It  is  a  man  called  Dale.     He  wrote  to  me  from  Wood- 


GOOD  FRIDAY  73 

hurst,  where  he  is  staying.  I  don't  know  anything  about 
him,  except  that  he  was  a  friend  of  Sir  Joseph's  son,  the  one 
that  died." 

"  Then  he  would  be  a  middle-aged  man  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  He  said  he  had  a  large  family.  He  wants  a 
house  with  quite  a  lot  of  bedrooms." 

"  I  hope  some  of  them  will  be  children,"  said  Hilda. 
"Both  Mrs.  O'Keefeand  I  want  some  children  toplay  with  here." 

"  I  don't  suppose  he  will  come,"  said  Fred.  *'  We  know 
our  Maximilian's  sanguine  nature." 

"  I  shall  be  able  to  tell  you  more  after  I've  seen  him,"  said 
Browne. 

They  drank  their  after-luncheon  coffee  in  the  garden,  in 
front  of  the  house.  It  was  more  like  June  than  April.  Hilda, 
feeling  a  little  bit  ashamed  of  herself,  and  possibly  prompted 
by  her  mother,  had  gone  off  to  church  again.  Fred  had 
offered  to  walk  across  the  park  with  her.  They  had  ex- 
changed very  few  words,  and  none  but  in  the  presence  of 
Mrs.  Redcliffe  and  Browne.  But  she  did  not  seem  to  desire 
a  tete-a-tete  conversation  as  much  as  he,  and  had  refused  his 
escort ;  and  as  Browne  had  suggested  that  they  should  walk 
up  to  the  Fisheries  together  a  little  later,  and  there  had  been 
no  reason  for  demurring  to  th6  suggestion,  he  had  seen  her  go 
off  by  herself. 

The  two  men  took  their  leave  of  Mrs.  Redcliffe  shortly 
afterwards,  and,  leaving  the  garden  by  an  upper  gate,  walked 
up  the  meadow  and  into  the  woods  which  lay  behind  the 
house  to  the  north.  They  walked  along  green  rides  for  over 
a  mile.  The  woods  on  either  side  of  them  were  bare  except 
for  the  fresh  greenness  of  an  occasional  larch  or  thorn,  and 
the  glistening  depth  of  ;he  hollies,  but  the  primroses  were 
growing  everywhere,  i  sheets  and  drifts  and  clumps  of  yellow, 
and  through  the  purpiing  network  of  the  trees  the  April  sky 
showed  blue. 


74 


EXTON  MANOR 


After  the  interchange  of  some  desultory  conversation,  the 
pair  of  them  fell  silent  for  a  time.  Browne  was  no  great  talker ; 
had,  indeed,  few  topics  of  conversation  outside  the  immediate 
interests  of  his  life,  which  were  concerned  chiefly  with  the 
property  he  spent  his  time  in  administering.  He  was  a  faith- 
ful servant,  and  his  heart  was  in  his  work.  The  politics  of 
Exton  Manor  afforded  him  abundant  food  for  reflection  at  this 
time,  and  he  retired  into  himself  to  consider  them. 

Fred  Prentice,  too,  had  something  to  think  about.  What 
had  his  mother  meant  by  saying  that  Hilda  RedclifFe  had — 
what  was  it — ideas  ?  He  was  not  puppy  enough  to  think  that 
she  had  secretly  fallen  in  love  with  him.  So  he  told  himself. 
They  had  been  good  friends — comrades — since  her  early  girl- 
hood, and  the  last  time  he  had  been  at  home  he  had  begun  to 
feel  rather  sentimental  towards  her.  He  had  spent  the  Christ- 
mas holidays  at  Exton.  There  had  been  dances  in  some  of  the 
houses  around,  and  more  intimate  gatherings  at  home.  He  had 
played  golf  with  her  in  the  park,  bicycled,  and  walked  through 
the  forest  with  her,  taken  her  to  meets  of  the  hounds.  She 
had  often  stood  with  him  while  he  shot,  and  he  had  taken  it 
for  granted  that  she  should  prefer  to  stand  by  him,  who  was  but 
an  indiflFerent  shot,  than  watch  the  performances  of  some  more 
experienced  gun.  They  had  been  the  best  of  friends,  had  been 
thrown  very  much  together,  and  had  enjoyed  being  together; 
and  even  when  the  vein  of  sentimentality  had  begun  to  show 
itself  in  his  attitude  towards  her,  she  had  not  withdrawn  her 
frank  companionship,  but  had  laughed  at  him,  and,  so  to  speak, 
kept  him  in  his  place. 

Then  he  had  gone  back  to  London,  and — forgotten  her? 
No ;  but  had  had  so  many  other  interests  that  he  had  not  made 
an  opportunity,  as  he  might  very  well  have  done,  of  coming 
down  to  Exton  and  renewing,  for  a  few  days,  the  pleasing  in- 
tercourse of  those  delightful  Christmas  holidays.  For  they  had 
been  delightful.     He  had  had  very  few  cares  at  that  time — 


GOOD  FRIDAY  75 

none  to  speak  of,  for  the  weeds  of  debt,  from  which  the  ground 
of  his  life  had  before  that  been  cleared,  had  not  yet  begun  to 
grow  again,  although  he  had  been  busy  sowing  a  new  crop ; 
there  had  been  more  than  the  customary  Christmas  gaiety  to 
amuse  him,  and  Hilda's  constant  companionship  had  made  the 
intervening  time  pass  very  pleasantly.  He  had  often  thought 
over  those  days  of  Christmas  and  the  New  Year  since,  al- 
though he  had  taken  no  trouble  to  renew  them. 

Now  things  had  changed.  He  could  put  his  fingers  on  no 
definite  point  in  which  he  could  have  expected  Hilda's  be- 
haviour to  him  during  the  last  hour  to  have  been  different,  but 
he  felt  that  she  was  not  the  same,  that  he  would  not  be  likely 
to  see  so  much  of  her  during  the  days  of  this  visit  as  on  the 
last,  or,  if  he  did,  she  would  keep  him  at  a  greater  distance. 
He  had  not  thought  about  her  much  since  he  had  last  seen  her, 
but  the  change  disturbed  him.  He  was  in  train  for  thinking  a 
good  deal  about  her  on  account  of  it.  What  had  caused  it  ? 
She  had  certainly  rejected  the  advances  he  had  made  to  her  in 
the  winter,  but  she  had  done  so  in  such  a  way  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  think  of  her  now  resenting,  and  drawing  into  her 
shell  to  avoid  the  repetition  of  them. 

And  yet  she  might,  perhaps  reasonably,  feel  hurt  that  he  had 
removed  himself  so  long  from  her.  His  attentions  had  been 
robbed  of  whatever  value  she  might  have  put  upon  them,  since 
they  had  so  evidently  been  caused  by  proximity.  So  she  might 
have  argued  to  herself,  and  become  annoyed  with  him  for  show- 
ing so  plainly  how  little  he  really  cared  for  her.  His  heart 
gave  a  flutter  when  he  arrived  at  this  point.  Then  she  did 
care  for  him — a  little.  It  was  the  one  thing  that  was  wanted 
to  make  a  young  man  at  the  heart-fluttering  age  settle  down 
again  to  the  pursuit.  Of  course  he,  too,  really  did  care  for 
her.  And  he  would  show  it.  He  had  four  days  before  him. 
Perhaps  he  could  take  another.  It  was  not  actually  necessary 
'^v*;  he  should  snend  a  v^o\p  week  with  his  friend  Paridelle 


76  EXTON  MANOR 

And  it  was  not  to  be  supposed  that  he  would  have  much  diffi- 
culty in  getting  back  to  the  terms  on  which  he  had  been  with 
her  three  months  ago.  What  a  dear  girl  she  was  !  So  frank 
and  loyal  and  kind — so  pretty,  too  !  Yes  ;  really  pretty  when 
you  knew  her  well,  and  had  seen  her  in  all  her  moods,  and  all 
her  charming,  youthful  guises.  Perhaps  prettiest  in  that  white 
ball  dress  with  the  little  pink  roses — the  dress  she  had  worn  at 
the  New  Year's  Eve  ball  which  old  Sir  Joseph  had  given,  and 
at  the  little  dance  at  Standon  House. 

Here  his  meditations  were  broken  in  upon  by  Browne, 
who  said,  "  I  wonder  if  Turner  can  have  fixed  it  up  on  the 
way  to  Greathampton  ?  Hardly  have  had  time,  I  should 
think." 

"  Fixed  what  up  ?  "  asked  Fred. 

Browne  started,  and  laughed  a  little  nervously.  ''  I  beg  your 
pardon,"  he  said.  "  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  had  forgotten  you 
were  here." 

"  What  has  Turner  been  fixing  up  on  the  way  to  Great- 
hampton ?  "  asked  Fred  again. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  why  I  shouldn't  tell  you.  It  is  pretty 
common  talk.     He's  making  love  to  Mrs.  O'Keefe." 

"  What,  the  mysterious  widow  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  there  is  anything  mysterious  about  her. 
Her  husband  was  a  brother  of " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know.     I'm  tired  of  hearing  that  her  husband 

was  a  brother  of .     She's  mysterious  to  me.     People  are 

always  talking  of  her  here,  and  I've  never  set  eyes  on  her." 

"  Well,  she's  a  deuced  pretty  woman.  You'll  say  so  when 
vcu  see  her.  I'm  always  advising  Turner  to  go  in  and  win, 
\jut  the  fellow's  got  no  pluck  about  it.  He's  desperately  smit- 
ten, but  he  doesn't  ask  her." 

"  Would  she  have  him  if  he  did  ?  " 

"  That  I  can't  tell  you.     I  should  think  not." 

"Why  don't  you  ask  her  yourself?  " 


GOOD  FRIDAY  77 

"  What,  me  ?  No,  thank  you.  I'm  well  enough  off  as  I 
am.  'Sides,  I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  Turner.  I  can  keep  my 
head.  I  like  talking  to  a  pretty  woman,  and  all  that,  when  I'm 
with  her ;  but  as  for  going  out  of  my  way  to  get  opportunities — 
why,  I  wouldn't  walk  across  the  road  to  do  it." 

"  Did  Turner  go  to  Greathampton  with  her  ?  '* 

"  Yes.  Silly  ass  !  Fancy  a  fellow  of  his  age  !  He  was 
going  to  take  some  fish  to  Troutbridge  on  Wednesday,  and  he 
went  on  Tuesday,  just  because  he  had  heard  that  Mrs. 
O'Keefe  was  going  up  to  town  then  on  her  way  to  Ireland, 
and  he  wanted  to  travel  as  far  as  Greathampton  with  her. 
Perfectly  silly.  I  call  it.  However,  it's  none  of  my  business. 
If  he  likes  to  make  an  ass  of  himself,  he  can." 

"  And  that's  when  you  think  he  may  have  done  it  ?  Well, 
we'll  find  out.  It  would  be  rather  fun  to  see  old  Turner 
married." 

They  had  come  out  at  the  bottom  of  the  chain  of  ponds 
which  stretched  up  the  valley  to  the  breeding-house,  and  the 
spring  which  fed  them.  Higher  up  still  was  Turner's  house, 
rose-  and  clematis-covered,  with  a  backing  of  pines,  its  win- 
dows blinking  in  the  sunshine  across  the  flowers  in  its  garden. 
A  narrow  strip  of  ground,  where  the  unconfined  stream  had 
once  run,  had  been  cleared  here  between  the  trees,  and  tanks, 
some  puddled  with  clay,  others  neatly  cemented,  succeeded 
one  another,  and  were  linked  together  by  narrow  sluices,  down 
which  the  water  ran  cleanly.  A  thatch  of  dried  reeds,  sup- 
ported on  wire-netting  fastened  to  tree  trunks,  was  laid  across 
the  middle  of  each  tank  to  afford  shelter  for  the  fish,  which 
could  be  seen  lurking  in  its  shadow,  their  blunt,  brown  heads 
facing  the  incoming  water,  and  their  tails  waving  to  and  fro. 

"This  is  where  he  keeps  his  three-year-olds,"  said 
Browne,  bending  down  to  get  the  light  right  for  an  inspec- 
"  They're  a  well-grown  lot." 

"  There  he  is,"  said  Fred,     "  Pottering  about  as  usual,'* 


71  EXTON  MANOR 

Turner  had  just  come  out  of  one  of  the  little  galvanized 
iron  houses  which  were  dotted  about  by  the  upper  ponds.  He 
descried  them  coming  up  the  valley,  and  waved  a  hand,  walk- 
ing slowly  to  meet  them  between  his  ponds.  The  arrange- 
ment of  these  upper  ponds  was  a  marvel  of  ingenuity.  They 
had  been  made  close  together,  and  stretched  across  the  wider 
ground  in  three  or  four  rows.  There  was  a  gentle  fall  of 
water  two  ways,  and  the  stream  was  led  back  and  across  to 
feed  them  in  such  a  way  that  both  declivities  were  made  use 
of,  and  so  that  at  a<ny  time  a  tank  could  be  emptied,  and  the 
water  shut  out  from  it,  without  interfering  with  the  flow. 
The  ground  had  been  planted  here  with  azaleas  and  berberis 
and  bamboos,  and  there  were  beds  dug  in  the  fertile  peaty  soil 
for  hardy  flowers,  which  were  already  pushing  up  their  herald 
clumps  of  green.  Utility  and  ornament  went  hand  in  hand, 
and  no  fairer  spot  for  a  hermitage  could  have  been  found  than 
that  in  which  Turner  lived  solitary,  raised  his  fish,  and  grew 
his  flowers. 

Turner's  welcome  was  expressed  by  a  slight  contraction  of 
the  muscles  of  one  side  of  his  face.  He  had  on  a  very  old 
tweed  suit,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  "So  you've  come 
down,  have  you  ?  "  he  said  to  Fred.  "  How  long  do  you  in- 
tend to  fascinate  the  ladies  in  these  parts  ?  " 

"  You  old  misanthrope,"  said  Fred,  with  a  dig  of  the 
knuckles  among  Turner's  lean  ribs.  "  I've  been  hearing 
tales  about  you.     Come  out  of  your  shell  at  last,  have  you  ?  " 

"  Browne's  jealous,"  returned  the  other.  "Can't  bear  to  see 
anybody  else  looking  after  a  lady — a  certain  lady." 

Browne  spluttered.  "  Come,  I  like  that,"  he  said.  "  What 
do  you  always  want  to  be  putting  it  on  to  me  for .?  Why 
don't  you  behave  like  a  man  ?  You'd  ha'  b?en  married  by 
this  time,  if  you'd  had  the  pluck  of  a  mouse." 

Turner  threw  at  him  a  gadfly  look.  "Don't  give  yourself 
away  before  young  Fred,"  he  whispered  loudly. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  79 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  mind  me,"  said  Fred.  "  So  Maximilian 
is  in  it  too,  is  he  ?  " 

"In  it  ? "  echoed  Turner.  "  He's  head  over  ears  in  it. 
Have  you  come   up  to  get  a  drink,  or  to  borrow  a  book? 

Come  in." 

He  turned  and  led  the  way  to  the  house. 

"We  have  come  for  the  pleasure  of  your  society,"  said 
FreJ.     "  But,  now  we  are  here,  we'll  take  both." 

Browne  said  nothing,  having  no  suitable  words  at  com- 
mand. 

They  went  mto  the  book-lined  sitting-room.  Browne  and 
Fred  sat  them  down  in  two  of  the  deep  easy-chairs,  while 
Turner  manipulated  a  mysterious  table  in  the  window,  from 
whose  recesses,  as  he  opened  its  leaves,  sprang  complete  all  the 
apparatus  for  refreshment.     Fred  cast  his  eye  on  the  walls. 

"  I  suppose  these  shelves  contain  more  rubbish  than  you 
could  find  in  the  same  space  anywhere  else,"  he  said. 

"  Funny  what  a  lot  of  people  come  and  borrow  from  them," 
said  Turner. 

"  Oh,  we  all  like  to  read  a  good  novel  sometimes.  You're 
the  only  man  I  know  who  reads  all  the  bad  ones,  and  keeps 
'em  by  him.  Why  don't  you  hire  your  books  from  a 
library  ?  " 

"  Why  don't  you  hire  your  clothes  from  a  pawnbroker  ? 
Here  you  are — mild  for  the  youth,  strong  for  the  old  toper." 

They  sipped  and  smoked  and  chatted.  Browne  spoke  of  his 
expected  tenant  for  the  Lodge. 

"  Friend  of  Sir  Joseph's  son  .? "  said  Turner.  "  But  he 
died  twenty  years  ago." 

"  I  don't  know.      I  never  heard." 

"  The  old  man  told  me  so.  And,  mind  you,  old  Sir  Joseph 
wasn't  much  in  those  days." 

"  He  was  verv  rich.  He  retired  from  business  when  he 
came  here." 


8o  EXTOl^  MANOR 

"Yes.  But  he  had  spent  all  his  life  making  his  money. 
He  came  from  nothing  at  all.  He  had  never  lived  in  a  big 
house  before  he  took  the  Abbey.     He  told  me  all  about  it." 

"  What  are  you  driving  at  ?  '* 

"  I'm  thinking  that  if  this  man  of  yours  was  a  friend  of 
Sir  Joseph's  son  in  those  days,  he  might  not — well,  he  might 
not  be  of  the  sort  that  the  old  lady  would  want  about  her 
when  she  comes  here." 

"You  must  be  careful  of  that,  Maximilian,"  said  Fred. 
"  Don't  get  any  outsiders  in." 

"  Oh,  I'll  be  careful,"  said  Browne.  "  If  this  man  is  no 
worse  than  old  Sir  Joseph,  there  won't  be  much  to  com- 
plain of." 

"  Old  Sir  Joseph  was  one  in  a  thousand,"  said  Turner. 
"  But  his  early  friends  who  used  to  come  down  here  weren't 
exactly  of  the  highest  class.  I  don't  care  a  hang  what  a  man 
is  for  myself,  's  long  as  he's  a  good  fellow ;  but  you  know 
what  the  women  are,  Browne.  At  least,  you  ought  to — 
regular  lady-killer.  Don't  let  your  soft  heart  run  away  with 
you  when  this  fellow  comes." 

Fred  suddenly  rose.  *'  I  must  be  getting  back  home,"  he  said. 

"  Getting  back  home  !  "  exclaimed  Turner.  "  Why,  you've 
only  just  come.     Sit  down  and  have  another  drink." 

"  No,  thanks.  I  must  be  ofF.  The  mater  won't  know 
where  I  am." 

"  I'm  not  coming  yet,"  said  Browne.  "  I'm  very  com- 
fortable where  I  am."  He  looked  it,  as  he  sat  back  in  his 
chair,  his  large  frame  bolstered  about  with  the  cushioned  back 
and  sides. 

"  All  right,"  said  Fred.  "  Good-bye.  See  you  both  later 
on,"  and  he  took  up  his  hat  and  stick,  and  hurried  out  of  the 
room. 

"Wants  to  see  Hilda  Redcliffe  home  from  church,"  said 
Browne  as  he  left  the  room.     "  Only  just  thought  of  it." 


GOOD  FRIDAY  8i 

"  Never  saw  such  a  fellow  for  the  petticoats,"  said  Turner. 
"  He  won't  reach  forty  like  us  without  being  caught,  eh  ?  " 

Browne,  with  an  unaccustomed  perception,  had  put  his 
finger  plumb  on  the  reason  for  Fred's  hurried  departure.  What 
was  he  doing  there  on  a  fresh  and  sunny  spring  day,  smoking, and 
drinking  whisky  and  soda  with  two  elderly  men,  indoors,  when 
the  world  held  delights  of  which  to  hear  them  speak  was  an 
absurdity  ?  They  might  tickle  each  other's  sides — the  fat 
sides  of  Browne,  the  lean  sides  of  Turner — with  talk  of  their 
goddess ;  their  sober,  mature  goddess,  who  had  already  given 
up  her  claim  to  Olympus,  and  must  be  wooed,  if  wooed  at  all, 
by  the  light  of  her  drab  mortality.  A  widow,  comfortably 
ofF !  A  fitting  object  of  devotion  for  substantial  men,  who 
had  left  the  high,  sun-flooded  clouds  behind  them,  and  de- 
scended to  earth,  to  walk  henceforth  by  the  yellow  gas-flame 
of  expediency.  There  was  no  kinship  between  him  and  them. 
Let  them  smoke  and  drink  and  gossip.  For  him  there  was 
the  Spring  sunshine  and  the  bursting  earth,  and  a  girl,  walking 
in  the  glamour  of  her  untouched  youth,  inscrutable,  inviting. 

Fred  walked  quickly  down  the  road  through  the  wood  for 
a  mile  or  more,  then  turned  into  a  ride  which  led  him  to 
where  the  trees  gave  place  to  the  open  grass  of  the  park.  He 
seated  himself  on  a  fence,  from  which  he  could  command  a 
view  of  the  church  and  the  open  ground  across  which  Hilda 
must  walk  to  the  White  House,  unless  she  went  home  by  the 
road.  He  would  be  able,  directly  he  saw  the  people  coming 
out  of  the  churchyard,  to  leave  his  post  of  observation,  and 
walk  across  to  where  he  must  meet  her,  in  the  most  natural 
way. 

He  had  no  time  to  wait.  He  had  hardly  taken  his  seat  when 
a  little  black  rill  of  church-goers  began  to  trickle  out  along  the 
path  by  the  graves,  and  then  swelled  into  a  stream  of  respect- 
able size,  from  which,  as  it  flowed  out  of  the  churchyard  gate, 
a  single  figure  detached  itself  and  came  towards  the  pond  and 


82  EXTON  MANOR 

the  gate  which  led  into  the  wide  expanse  of  the  park.  Fred 
jumped  ofF  the  rail,  and  walked  quickly  towards  a  point  at 
which  he  could  intercept  it. 

He  felt  strangely  ill  at  ease  as  Hilda  looked  up  and  saw 
him  approaching  her.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  known 
such  a  sensation  with  regard  to  her ;  but,  then,  it  was  the  first 
time  he  had  ever  schemed  to  meet  her,  or  been  doubtful  of  his 
reception.  He  had  always  hitherto  gone  to  her  whenever  he 
wished  to,  and  taken  it  for  granted  that  she  would  be  pleased 
to  see  him.  Now  he  was  not  so  sure,  and  the  little  ruse,  by 
which  he  had  almost  deceived  himself,  became  disconcertingly 
patent. 

Hilda  lifted  her  eyes,  dropped  them,  walked  on  a  few  paces, 
and  then  stood  still  till  he  joined  her. 

"  So  we  meet,"  he  said,  summoning  frankness  to  hide  his 
diffidence.  **^  I  have  just  come  down  from  the  Fisheries,  and 
thought  I  would  wait  for  you.  What  an  age  it  seems  since 
we  last  met,  Hilda." 

She  walked  on,  and  he  walked  beside  her.  "Are  you 
coming  back  to  tea?  "  she  asked. 

"  It  is  rather  early  for  that.  No,  I  must  go  home.  I  will 
just  walk  up  with  you.  Do  you  remember  the  last  time  we 
walked  across  the  park  together — the  afternoon  before  I  went 
back  to  town,  when  we  had  had  our  last  game  of  golf 
together  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say  I  do,"  said  Hilda  shortly,  but  untruthfully, 
for  she  well  remembered  that  wintry  sunset  under  which  they 
had  walked  slowly  up  to  the  little  wicket  gate  which  led  from 
the  garden  of  the  White  House  into  the  park,  and  had  lin- 
gered there  before  they  went  into  the  lamplight,  while  Fred 
painted  the  loneliness  of  his  life  in  town  in  colours  of  pathetic 
exaggeration,  and  she  had  softened,  and  almost,  but  not  quite, 
relaxed  the  guard  she  had  hitherto  kept  up  against  him.  How 
near  she  then  had  been  to  falling  into  the  mood  for  indulging 


GOOD  FRIDAY  83 

which  she  had  consistently  laughed  at  him,  Fred  had  never 
known.  She  was  not  in  the  least  likely  to  fall  into  it  now,  or 
ever. 

"  I  think  those  Christmas  holidays  were  the  best  time  I 
ever  spent,"  said  Fred.  "  And  it  was  owing  to  you,  Hilda, 
that  I  enjoyed  them  as  much  as  I  did." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Fred,"  she  said  impatiently,  "  please  don't 
begin  that  nonsense  again.  It  went  a  good  way  towards  spoil- 
ing whatever  pleasure  I  may  have  had  last  Christmas.  I'm 
tired  of  it." 

"  It  isn't  nonsense  at  all,"  he  replied.  "  It  is  perfectly  true. 
I  did  enjoy  those  holidays  enormously,  and  it  was  owing  to 
you  that  I  did  so.  You  can't  think  how  often  I  have  thought 
over  them  since,  and  wished  myself  back  here." 

"  It  didn't  go  much  further  than  wishing,  then,"  she  said, 
and  bit  her  lip,  recognizing  instantly  that  she  had  made  a 
mistake. 

"  Then  you  have  missed  me  ?  "  he  said  at  once,  and  wiped 
out  her  mistake  by  his  own. 

"  Missed  you  ?  Why  should  I  have  missed  you  ?  "  she 
asked,  in  heightened  tones.  "I  don't  know  which  I  dislike 
most,  the  way  you  annoy  me  by — by  pretending  to  make 
love  to  me,  or  the  way  in  which  you  coolly  assume  that  I  am 
in  love  with  you." 

They  were  plain  words,  but  Hilda  was  accustomed  to  ex- 
press her  meaning  in  the  plainest  words  that  were  to  hand. 

"Oh,  Hilda,  I've  never  assumed  such  a  thing,"  cried  Fred, 
not  altogether  sorry  that  the  way  had  been  opened  for  a  dis- 
cussion of  intricacies.      But  she  took  the  words  out  of  his  mouth. 

"  You  have,"  she  said ;  "  and  you  do.     It  is  not  that  I  care 
a  snap  whether  you  come  here  or  stay  away.     But  you  seem 
to  think  that  you  can  come  back  whenever  you  please,  and 
find  me  waiting  here  for  you  to  amuse  yourself  with,  waiting 
and  grateful  for  your  notice,  I  suppose." 


84  EXTON  MANOR    . 

It  was  delicate  ground,  and  she  was  nearly  stumbling  again, 
but  he  was  too  much  affected  by  her  attitude  to  notice  it. 

"  I  thought  we  were  friends,  and  should  always  be  friends," 
he  said  disconsolately. 

"  So  we  were  friends,  but  you  did  your  best  to  spoil  our 
friendship.  I'm  quite  ready  to  be  friends,  only  I  don't  want 
to  listen  to  any  more  silliness." 

This  lame,  girlish  conclusion  had  brought  them  to  the  gate. 
They  stood  there  as  before,  but  Hilda  was  evidently  in  no 
mind  to  linger,  nor  did  she  intend  to  renew  her  invitation  to 
him  to  come  into  the  house.  He  had  to  wind  up  the  dis- 
cussion in  a  sentence,  if  he  wanted  her  to  listen  to  it. 

*'Well,  I  won't  worry  you  in  that  way  again,  then,"  he 
said.  "  But  you'll  be  the  same  as  you  were  if  I  don't,  won't 
you,  Hilda?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  if  you  like,"  she  replied  indifferently,  walking 
away  from  him  between  the  rhododendrons. 

"  Good-bye,  then,  till  to-morrow,"  he  called  after  her. 

''  I  shall  be  out  all  day  to-morrow,"  she  replied  over  her 
shoulder.     "  But  good-bye." 


CHAPTER  VII 

EASTER  SATURDAY  AND  SUNDAY 

ExTON  Lodge  was  a  house  of  medium  size,  standing  in  its 
own  few  acres  of  garden  and  orchard  and  paddock.  It  stood 
some  way  back  from  the  road  leading  out  of  the  village  away 
from  the  Abbey,  and  was  approached  by  a  drive  curving  up- 
hill through  trees  and  shrubs.  It  commanded  much  the  same 
view  from  the  back  windows  as  the  vicarage,  and  the  lawn, 
which  enclosed  it  on  two  sides,  was  a  pleasant  place  on  which 
to  sit  and  watch  the  river  and  the  woods  beyond  it.  The 
Lodge  had  stood  empty  for  some  years,  which  had  been  a 
source  of  some  vexation  to  Browne,  for  it  was  the  sort  ot 
house  which  he  thought  he  ought  easily  to  have  been  able  to 
let,  surrounded  as  it  was  by  all  the  beauties  of  forest,  field  and 
river,  and  at  no  great  distance  from  the  sea.  He  was  in  and 
about  it  early  on  Saturday  morning,  causing  blinds  to  be  drawn 
up  and  windows  to  be  opened,  doing  what  little  he  could,  in 
its  empty  state,  to  show  off  its  attractions  to  advantage,  for  he 
had  a  strong  hope  that  he  was  at  last  about  to  remove  its  re- 
proach, and  secure  a  tenant  for  the  only  letable  and  unlet 
house  on  the  Manor. 

At  eleven  o'clock  an  open  carriage,  drawn  by  two  horses, 
passed  through  the  village  from  the  direction  of  Woodhurst, 
and  drove  in  at  the  gates  of  the  Lodge.  In  it  was  seated  a 
stout,  middle-aged  man,  dressed,  as  far  as  could  be  seen  of 
him,  in  a  blue  overcoat  with  a  velvet  collar,  and  a  high- 
crowned  felt  hat.  He  leaned  back  in  his  seat,  smoking  a 
cigar,  and  surveyed  his  surroundings  with  an  air  of  contented 
tolerance,  which  seemed  to  show  a  mind  pleased  with  itself 
and  with  the  world.     By  his  side  sat  a  stout,  middle-aged  lady, 

8S 


86  EXTON  MANOR 

in  a  black  mantle  with  bead  trimmings,  and  shady  hat  of  black 
straw,  modestly  decked  with  black  ribbons.  Her  air  was  so 
much  the  counterpart  of  her  husband's,  with  a  becoming  hint 
of  deference  added  to  it,  as  if  she  admired  the  same  things 
more  because  he  admired  them  than  of  her  own  unaided  pow- 
ers of  appreciation,  that  it  was  plain  that  here  was  a  couple 
going  through  life  in  the  most  satisfactory  way,  smoothly  and 
happily,  asking  little  of  fate,  because  fate  had  already  given 
them  all  they  could  possibly  want,  including  each  other.  The 
couple  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  William  Dale,  who  had  gone 
through  forty  years  of  married  life  together  in  a  moderate-sized 
house  on  the  outskirts  of  Manchester,  which  they  had  now 
made  up  their  minds  to  exchange  for  a  moderate-sized  house 
in  the  heart  of  the  country. 

Browne  presented  himself  as  they  alighted  at  the  front  door. 
"  Mr.  Dale,"  he  said,  "  I  got  your  note,  and  have  come  up  to 
show  you  round  the  place." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Browne,"  said  Mr.  Dale  heartily,  with  a  strong 
Lancashire  accent  and  intonation,  of  which  no  attempt  at  re- 
production shall  be  made  here,  or  hereafter,  "  pleased  to  meet 
you,  Mr.  Browne.  Allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  my  wife, 
Mrs.  Dale.  Well,  Mr. — er — Browne,  this  is  a  charming 
spot — a  charming  spot.  I  think  we  ought  to  be  able  to  make 
ourselves  comfortable  here.     Eh,  mother?  " 

Mrs.  Dale  acquiesced,  with  a  mental  reservation  that  she 
should  wish  to  see  the  kitchens  and  offices  before  her  acquies- 
cence should  take  practical  shape.  There  was  a  short  consul- 
tation as  to  whether  the  coachman  should  put  up  his  horses,  or 
wait  where  he  was,  which  resulted  in  instructions  to  him  to 
drive  to  the  inn,  and  return  in  an  hour's  time.  Then  the  in- 
spection of  the  house  began.  Mr.  Dale  took  charge  of  the 
proceedings. 

"  Now,  Mr. — er — Browne,"  he  said,  as  they  went  through 
the  hall  into  the  drawing-room,  "  you'll  want  to  hear  all  about 


EASTER  SATURDAY  AND  SUNDAY  87 

us,  first  of  all.  Ah,  this  is  a  nice  room,  mother;  nice  little 
conservatory  and  all.  And  a  window  opening  into  the  garden. 
I've  retired  from  business,  Mr. — Browne — cotton,  you  know — 
give  you  all  the  references  you  want — and  the  wife  and  I  made 
up  our  minds  that  when  we  did  that  we'd  retire  altogether,  and 
leave  the  young  people  to  carry  on  things  in  their  own  way, 
without  any  interference  from  us,  I've  got  a  son  in  the  busi- 
ness— hope  you'll  make  his  acquaintance  some  day — and  a 
very  steady,  capable  young  fellow  he  is,  though  I  say  it  as 
shouldn't;  and  fond  of  a  bit  of  sport,  too — plays  football,  and 
sometimes  shoots  a  rabbit.  See,  mother  ?  Just  a  step  down, 
and  you're  in  the  garden.  We'll  have  a  good  look  round  the 
garden  afterwards.  Well,  this  room's  all  right,  Mr. — er — 
Browne.  Couldn't  be  better.  Now  for  the  dining-room.  As 
I  was  saying,  we  want  to  end  our  days  in  the  country,  as  far 
from  Manchester  as  possible,  see  ?  And  we've  always  had  a 
fancy  for  this  part  of  the  world  ever  since  came  to  stay  here 
with  poor  young  Joe  Chapman — well,  I  say  young ;  but  he 
was  forty  then — just  the  same  age  as  me.  And  now  I'm 
sixty.  The  years  don't  stand  still,  Mr. — er.  Here's  the 
dining-room,  mother.  Just  right,  eh  ?  There  was  a  time 
when  we  sat  down  fourteen  to  dinner,  Mr.  Browne,  family 
and  servants  ;  ten  up-stairs  and  four  down  ;  but  there  won't  be 
so  many  of  us  here.  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  we  came  here  on 
a  visit  to  old  Sir  Joseph,  and  I  said  to  the  wife,  *■  Mother,*  I 
said,  '  this  is  the  place  we'll  come  to  when  Tom's  ready  to 
step  into  my  shoes.'  She  laughed,  you  know,  because  Tom 
was  a  little  nipper  in  knickerbockers  then,  but  here  we  are,  all 
the  same,  eh,  mother  ?     Who  was  right,  eh  ?  " 

Browne  led  the  way  into  the  morning-room.  His  face  was 
perturbed.  How  could  he  possibly  tell  this  cheerful,  voluble 
man  that  he  was  not  at  all  the  sort  of  tenant  he  had  sought  for 
the  Lodge,  and  that  for  his  own  happiness  he  had  much  better 
settle  down  amongst  others  of  his  kind,  wherever  such  people 


88  EXTON  MANOR 

were  wont  to  congregate,  for  he  would  be  incongruously  out 
of  place  in  this  southern  countryside.  He  postponed  consid- 
eration of  the  problem  for  the  present.  Perhaps  he  would  not 
like  the  house.  But  he  knew  that  he  would  like  the  house. 
Perhaps  his  references  would  not  be  satisfactory.  But  he 
knew  that  he  would  not  be  able  to  refuse  him  on  the  score  of 
unsatisfactory  references. 

Mr.  Dale's  loud  voice  broke  in  on  his  ponderings.  "  Well, 
here's  the  breakfast-room,  mother.  Nice  room  too,  isn't  it  ? 
French  windows,  you  see,  into  another  bit  of  garden.  As  I 
was  saying,  Mr. — er,  we  don't  want  a  large  place.  Nice 
rooms,  and  a  nice  garden,  and  a  nice  neighb'rood — right  in  the 
country.  We've  had  enough  of  streets  and  houses,  haven't 
we,  mother  ?  Not  too  many  people,  but  just  a  few  for  a  bit 
of  company.  I  suppose  you've  some  nice  company  here, 
Mr. — er — Browne  ?  " 

He  pronounced  it  "  coompany,"  and  Browne  replied,  in  a 
maze  of  bewilderment,  that  there  were  other  inhabitants  of 
Exton. 

"Ay,  that'll  be  nice  for  mother  and  me,  and  the  children. 
There'll  be  six  of  *em  living  with  us,  Mr.  Browne.  There's 
Lotty — she  was  twenty-two  last  October;  but  we  shan't  have 
Lotty  with  us  long.  She's  engaged,  is  Lotty,  and  we  shall  be 
cheering  you  up  with  a  wedding  before  we've  been  here  long. 
Then  there's  Ada " 

"  I'm  sure  Mr.  Browne  doesn't  want  to  hear  the  names 
of  all  the  children,  father,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Dale.  "  If  we 
come  to  live  here,  he  will  meet  them  all  in  good  time,  himself." 

"  Eh,  mother,  have  it  your  own  way.  At  any  rate,  there's 
six  of  them,  Mr. — er;  Peter  and  Gladys  is  the  youngest — just 
thirteen,  and  there's  Tom,  and  Mary,  and  Ada,  and  Lotty  be- 
sides. So  now  you  know.  Ay,  this'll  be  father's  room, 
where  he'll  keep  his  papers,  eh,  mother  ?  Very  nice.  Just 
what  we  wanted." 


EASTER  SATURDAY  AND  SUNDAY  89 

The  rest  of  the  house  also  proved  to  be  just  what  Mr.  Dale 
wanted.  He  praised  everything,  without  exception,  and,  as 
Mrs.  Dale  passed  the  kitchen  premises  with  a  certificate  of 
merit,  there  remained  only  the  stables  and  the  gardens  to  be 
inspected.  These  had  also  been  constructed  in  just  such  a 
way  as  to  satisfy  Mr.  Dale's  requirements,  and,  when  they  had 
made  their  round  and  returned  to  the  house,  Mr.  Dale  had 
reached  the  position  of  treating  everything  as  his  own. 

The  longer  he  talked,  the  more  did  Browne  feel  that  he. 
would  not  do  as  a  tenant.  He  did  not  object  to  him  on  his 
own  account.  Allowing  for  the  limits  of  his  experience  of 
humankind,  which  had  not  hitherto  included  the  frankly 
bourgeois,  but  quite  self-satisfied,  wealthy  townsman,  his  feel- 
ing was  not  greatly  biassed  against  him.  He  rather  liked  him. 
But  he  did  not  suppose  that  anybody  else  in  the  place  would 
like  him,  or  his  troop  of  rough  children  ;  and  least  of  all  would 
Lady  Wrotham,  the  shadow  of  whose  prejudices  were  begin- 
ning to  lie  heavy  on  his  spirit,  put  up  with  such  a  neighbour  in 
one  of  the  most  important  houses  on  the  Manor. 

The  kitchen  dresser  was  the  only  piece  of  furniture  left  in 
the  empty  house,  and  Mr.  Dale  now  took  his  seat  on  it,  while 
Mrs.  Dale  and  Browne  leant  against  it,  and  entered  into  a  dis- 
cussion of  details.  Browne  nerved  himself,  against  his  ordi- 
nary practice,  to  be  adamant  on  the  subject  of  repairs.  The 
estate  was  not  prepared  to  spend  money  at  the  present  time  in 
putting  the  house  into  order.  If  a  tenant  did  not  care  to  do 
this  for  himself,  they  would  have  to  leave  the  house  empty. 
The  rent  was  low — he  named  a  figure  considerably  in  excess 
of  what  he  had  been  prepared  to  ask — and  it  was  low  because 
money  would  have  to  be  spent  on  the  place  before  it  could  be 
lived  in.  And  the  lease  must  be  a  long  one,  not  less  than 
twenty-one  years. 

Mr.  Dale  met  him  in  the  most  generous  spirit.  If  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  carry  on  his  ordinary  business  negotiations 


90  EXTON  MANOR 

in  this  spirit,  it  was  surprising  that  he  had  become  so  rich  a 
man  as  he  appeared  to  be.  He  had  expected  that  the  landlord 
would  do  something,  at  least,  towards  putting  the  place  into 
order.  It  was  customary.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  rent 
was  a  good  deal  lower  than  he  had  anticipated — here  Browne 
mentally  kicked  himself — and  he  was  quite  ready  to  spend 
what  was  required  in  making  himself  and  his  family  comfort- 
able. As  for  the  long  lease,  it  was  just  what  he  wanted.  He 
should  not  have  cared  to  spend  so  much  money  as  he  was  pre- 
pared  to  spend  unless  he  could  feel  that  the  place  was  practi- 
cally his  own — at  any  rate,  for  his  lifetime. 

"  If  I  or  the  wife  live  much  over  eighty,  Mr. — er — Browne 
— well,  I  dare  say  you  won't  turn  us  out,  eh  f  " 

Browne  had  the  consolation  of  feeling  that,  as  far  as  the  finan- 
cial aspect  of  the  negotiation  was  concerned,  the  estate  would 
have  the  most  satisfactory  of  tenants. 

"  I  didn't  tell  you,  Mr.  Browne,"  pursued  Mr.  Dale,  "  that 
I've  already  been  in  communication  with  your  lawyers,  Messrs. 
Shepherd  and  Pain — I've  done  a  bit  of  business  with  them  in 
days  gone  by — they  were  poor  young  Joe  Chapman's  lawyers, 
too,  and  I  was  his  executor.  It  was  them  as  referred  me  to 
you.  I  asked  them  if  there  was  a  house  to  let  here.  They 
know  all  about  me ;  but  I'll  give  you  other  references  too." 

He  proceeded  to  do  so,  and  Browne  felt  that  his  last  hope 
was  cut  off. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  have  to  submit  your  pro- 
posal to  Lord  Wrotham.  I  can't  do  anything  on  my  own  re- 
sponsibility." 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Dale.  "  But  that  won't  take 
long.  I'm  prepared  to  do  everything  that's  wanted  on  your 
side,  and  I'm  capable  of  doing  that  and  a  good  deal  more,  as 
you'll  have  no  difficulty  in  finding  out.  I  don't  think  you'll 
get  a  better  tenant  than  William  Dale,  Mr. — er — Browne, 
though  I  say  it  as  shouldn't.     Well,  now,  mother  and  me  will 


EASTER  SATURDAY  AND  SUNDAY  91 

be  staying  at  Woodhurst  for  another  week.  If  you'll  kindly 
put  the  preliminaries  through  as  quickly  as  possible,  we'll 
get  the  work  set  in  hand  before  we  go  north  again,  and 
we'll  come  and  settle  in  as  soon  as  everything  is  ready  for  us. 
See  ?  " 

Browne  did  see.  He  saw  that  Mr.  Dale  meant  to  come  to 
Exton,  and  that  there  was  practically  nothing  he  could  do  to 
stop  him.  He  resigned  himself  to  the  inevitable,  and  allowed 
himself  to  meet  bonhomie  with  cordiality.  "  Well,  I  hope 
you'll  like  the  place,"  he  said.  "  We'll  do  our  best  to  make 
you  at  home  here  if  you  come.  But  you're  deciding  in  rather 
a  hurry,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  That's  my  way,"  returned  Mr.  Dale.  "  I  know  what  I 
want,  and  I've  got  it  here.  If  there's  anything  more  to  talk 
about,  Mr. — er — Browne,  you've  only  got  to  send  me  a  line, 
and  I'll  come  over.  Or  perhaps  you'll  come  over  to  Wood- 
hurst and  take  a  bit  of  lunch,  or  dinner,  with  us.  We  shall 
always  be  pleased  to  see  you,  and  I've  no  doubt  we  shall  know 
each  otiier  very  well  by  and  by." 

It  seemed  probable.  Browne  watched  them  drive  away, 
summoned  a  woman,  who  had  been  hanging  about  in  the  back- 
ground, to  shut  up  the  house,  and  made  his  way  back  to  his 
office,  a  prey  to  the  liveliest  apprehensions. 

Hilda  RedclifFe  spent  the  whole  of  that  day  wandering  in  the 
forest.  She  did  this  at  all  times  of  the  year,  taking  her  lunch- 
eon, sketching  materials  and  a  book  with  her  in  a  knapsack, 
and  returning  at  dusk,  sometimes  happy,  sometimes  pensive. 
Fred  Prentice  had  shared  these  wanderings  during  those  Christ- 
mas holidays  to  which  he  had  alluded  with  such  persistent 
iteration,  but  she  was  apparently  determined  to  give  him  no 
chance  of  doing  so  on  this  occasion,  for  she  set  out  immediately 
after  an  early  breakfast,  and  gained  the  forest  aisles  by  way  of 
the  woods  at  the  back  of  the  White  House,  instead  of  the  more 


92  EXTON  MANOR 

direct  route  in  the  open.  She  returned  only  in  time  to  dress 
for  dinner.  She  was  tired  out,  disinclined  for  conversation, 
and  asked  her  mother's  permission  to  go  to  bed  directly  after 
dinner. 

Fred  had  arrived  at  the  White  House  about  half-an-hour 
after  her  departure,  and  learnt  from  Mrs.  Redcliffe  where  she 
had  gone,  whereupon  he  had  immediately  set  out  to  find  her. 
But  she  was  in  none  of  the  haunts  which  he  knew  to  be  her 
favourites,  and,  after  walking  about  for  some  hours  from  one 
place  to  another,  he  had  returned,  thoroughly  disgusted,  to  the 
vicarage.  Filial  piety  disposed  of  his  afternoon,  which  was 
spent  on  the  golf  links  with  his  father.  He  kept  his  eye  on 
the  White  House,  whenever  it  was  in  view,  rather  than  on 
the  ball,  and  got  beaten.  He  inveigled  his  father  into  calling 
on  Mrs.  Redcliffe  at  the  close  of  the  game,  but  Hilda  had  not 
returned  by  the  time  they  left  the  house,  nor  did  they  meet 
her  as  they  returned  home.  The  evening  was  a  dull  one  for 
him,  and  he  retired  very  early  to  bed,  cursing  his  fate. 

Mrs.  Redcliffe  and  Hilda  were  in  church  at  the  early  serv- 
ice on  Easter  Day,  but  he  was  with  his  mother,  and  had  no 
chance  of  a  word  with  them.  And,  after  the  eleven  o'clock 
service,  although  they  did  all  meet  at  the  church  gate,  the 
RedclifFes  had  a  party  of  friends  with  them,  people  whom 
Fred  did  not  know,  who  were  staying  in  the  forest,  and  had 
driven  over  to  Exton  to  go  to  church  and  spend  the  rest  of 
the  day  at  the  White  House.  Hilda  shook  hands  with  him, 
and  immediately  went  off  between  a  girl  of  about  her  own 
age  and  a  man  rather  older,  who,  to  Fred's  eye,  possessed  all 
the  attributes  of  interloping  villainy.  Mrs.  Redcliffe  hung 
behind  to  say  a  few  words  to  Mrs.  Prentice  about  the  picnic 
on  the  following  day,  but  she  did  not  ask  Fred  to  come  and 
see  them  on  that  afternoon ;  made  it,  indeed,  rather  difficult 
for  him  to  do  so  if  he  wished,  as  her  last  words  were,  "  Well, 
then,  we  shall  all  meet  at  the  bridge  to-morrow  at  three  o'clock." 


EASTER  SATURDAY  AND  SUNDAY  93 

Nevertheless,  he  did  go  up  in  the  afternoon,  almost  against 
his  own  will.  He  could  not  support  the  idea  of  that  most 
offensive  young  man  filling  the  place  that  ought  to  have  been 
his  own,  and  no  doubt  using  his  contemptible  arts  to  gain  a 
footing  where  he  ought  not  to  have  dared  so  much  as  to  plant 
his  eyes. 

His  visit  was  not  a  success.  The  whole  party  was  sitting 
at  tea  on  the  lawn,  and,  as  he  had  expected,  the  young  man 
who  had  aroused  his  dislike  was  seated  by  Hilda's  side,  a  posi- 
tion which  was  apparently  to  his  liking.  Fred  suspected  him 
of  being  a  Cambridge  man.  He  had  always  considered  Cam- 
bridge second-rate,  but  he  had  had  no  idea  before  how  offen- 
sive were  the  manners  in  vogue  among  the  members  of  that 
university.  Why,  the  fellow  had  actually  acknowledged  his 
introduction  to  him  by  a  nod,  and  then  returned  to  his  con- 
versation with  Hilda  as  if  nothing  further  was  due  to  a  man 
whom  he  ought  to  have  known  to  be  a  somebody,  if  only 
from  the  perfection  of  his  attire.  There  was  some  confusion 
of  thought  here,  because  Fred  did  not  actually  claim  to  be  a 
somebody,  but  he  was  persuaded  that  he  looked  the  part,  and 
the  other  ought  to  have  recognized  it.  As  for  Hilda,  she 
seemed  only  to  have  ears  for  this  Light  Blue  bounder,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  actually  indelicate,  the  way  she  permitted  him 
to  monopolize  her.  If  that  was  the  sort  of  girl  she  was,  he 
should  certainly  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  her. 

He  turned  towards  one  of  the  girls  to  whom  he  had  been 
introduced,  the  other  being  engaged  with  her  mother  and 
Mrs.  Redcliffe,  and  began  to  make  rather  patronizing  con- 
versation with  her.  She  was  not  a  bad-looking  girl,  rather 
better-looking  than  Hilda,  really — at  least,  he  would  like  Hilda 
to  know  that  he  thought  so — but,  oh,  horrors!  what  was  this  ? 

"  You  look  like  a  Cambridge  man,  Mr.  Prentice,"  she  was 
saying.  Could  words  so  base  come  from  such  pretty  lips  ? 
"  Are  you  up  there  ?  " 


94  EXTON  MANOR 

"  No,"  replied  Fred,  with  dreadful  calm.  "  I  came  down 
from  the  university  a  year  ago,  but  I  was  not  at  Cambridge." 

"  Oh,  Oxford,  I  suppose.  How  horrid  for  you  !  It  isn't 
half  such  a  nice  place,  is  it  ?  " 

Was  it  possible  that  there  existed  any  being  on  earth  who 
really  thought  this  ?  If  so,  what  words  could  be  used  to  bring 
home  the  flagrancy  of  the  error  ? 

*'  My  brother  came  down  a  year  ago,  too,"  she  went  on, 
without  waiting  for  a  reply.  "  My  sister  and  I  went  up  for 
the  May  week.  It  was  a  perfectly  heavenly  time.  We  neve/ 
enjoyed  ourselves  so  much  anywhere.  You  don't  have  any- 
thing like  that  at  Oxford,  do  you  ? " 

Fred  felt  that  the  only  possible  attitude  was  one  of  bitter 
irony.     "Oh,  no,"  he  said;  "nothing  in  the  least  like  it." 

"  I  thought  not.  My  brother  was  captain  of  his  college 
boat — he  was  at  Jesus,  and  he  was  able  to  give  us  a  splendid 
time.  He  has  promised  to  take  us  up  again  this  year  for  a 
few  days,  and  we  are  trying  to  persuade  Mrs.  RedclifFe  to 
bring  Hilda  to  join  our  party." 

Hilda  at  Cambridge  !  Oh,  the  profanation !  He  had  in- 
tended some  day  to  show  her  Oxford.  It  must  not  be 
allowed.  He  must  speak  to  her  very  seriously  about  it.  But 
it  did  not  appear  that  he  would  have  an  opportunity  of  speak- 
ing to  her  about  this  or  anything  else  at  present,  for  she  was 
quite  taken  up  with  this  horrible  creature  from  Jesus  College, 
and  was  at  this  moment  laughing  delightedly  at  some  witless 
pleasantry  with  which  he  was  affronting  her  ears.  Fred  could 
endure  it  no  longer.  He  rose  abruptly.  "  I  must  be  getting 
back,"  he  said.  "  I  just  came  up  to  ask  if  mother  could  bring 
anything  for  the  picnic  to-morrow,  Mrs.  Redcliffe." 

Mrs.  Redcliffe  thanked  him  for  the  offer,  and  refused  it, 
which  was,  perhaps,  fortunate,  as  Mrs.  Prentice  had  expressed 
no  wish  to  bring  anything  but  herself  to  the  picnic,  and  would 
have  been  annoyed  if  she  had  been  asked  to  do  so.     He  was 


EASTER  SATURDAY  AND  SUNDAY  95 

not  asked  to  prolong  his  visit,  which  had  only  lasted  about  ten 
minutes,  and  walked  across  the  lawn  to  the  gate,  pursued  by  a 
ringing  peal  of  laughter  from  Hilda,  whose  appreciation  of 
the  Jesus  man's  humour  struck  him  as  being  in  the  worst  pos- 
sible taste. 

When  he  had  walked  a  little  way  down  the  road,  in  high 
dudgeon,  he  stopped  suddenly,  with  a  horrid  fear  knocking  at 
his  heart.  Would  these  friends  of  the  RedclifFcs  join  the 
party  on  the  following  day  ?  Because,  if  so,  he  was  quite 
determined  that  he  would  not.  He  walked  on  again,  more 
slowly.  No,  it  was  not  likely.  Mrs.  Redcliffe  had  named  the 
party,  and  not  included  them.  He  breathed  with  more  relief. 
He  would  make  sure  of  getting  Hilda  to  herself  at  some  stage 
of  the  proceedings,  and  he  would  say  many  things  to  her, 
giving  her  warning,  amongst  them,  of  the  mistake  she  would 
make  if  she  took  ofF  the  edge  of  her  future  introduction  to 
Oxford  by  a  premature  visit  to  Cambridge — especially  in  such 
company.  He  would  not  make  love  to  her;  she  need  not  be 
in  the  least  afraid  of  that.  The  inclination  to  do  so  had,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  entirely  left  him.  But,  for  the  sake  of  their  old 
intimacy,  and  out  of  his  wider  knowledge  of  the  world,  he 
would  take  an  admonitory  line,  and  put  himself  in  a  position 
to  which  she  could  for  the  future  look  up.  She  was  behaving 
badly.  He  would  tell  her  so,  making  her  understand,  at  the 
same  time,  that  he  only  did  so  for  her  good,  and  not  because 
her  behaviour  affected  him,  except  as  an  old  friend  who 
wished  her  well.  With  this  iiitention  he  walked  home, 
virtuous,  but  not  hilariously  happy,  and  accompanied  his 
mother  to  the  evening  service. 

As  they  came  out  of  church,  Mrs.  RedclifFe's  friends  passed 
them,  driving  home.  They  were  all  laughing,  and  Fred 
looked  fixedly  in  another  direction. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A   PICNIC   AT   warren's    HARD 

Easter  Monday  was  as  warm  and  cloudless  as  the  previous 
days  had  been.  Mrs.  RedclifFe's  picnic  party  assembled  at  the 
bridge  at  the  time  appointed.  There  were  six  of  them — for 
the  Vicar  had  excused  himself — a  comfortable  load  for  the 
roomy  boat,  which  had  been  the  property  of  Sir  Joseph  Chap- 
man, but  at  the  service  of  all  who  cared  to  ask  for  it,  and, 
since  his  death,  having  been  overlooked  at  the  dispersion  of 
his  effects,  had  lain  at  the  little  wharf  of  the  mill,  tacitly 
assigned  to  the  use  of  those  who  had  been  in  the  habit  of  bor- 
rowing it  before. 

It  was  not,  at  first  sight,  a  party  that  gave  great  promise  of 
enjoyment.  Hilda  and  Fred,  the  only  two  young  people  in  it, 
were,  towards  each  other,  as  we  have  seen  them.  Mrs. 
Prentice  cherished  cause  of  complaint,  not  yet  brought  to  a 
head,  both  against  her  hostess  and  against  Browne.  And  as 
for  Turner,  her  whole  being  was  in  revolt  against  him.  He 
seldom  or  never  went  to  church,  which  she  took  as  a  personal 
slight,  and  the  weapons  which  she  had  sometimes  brought  to 
bear  against  him  were  never  used  without  being  turned  back, 
by  the  man's  shameless  humour,  against  herself. 

He  came  up  to  her  at  once,  as  she  and  Fred  stood  by  the 
bridge,  Browne  and  the  RedclifFes  coming  down  the  road 
towards  them,  and  said,  in  a  manner  which  she  afterwards 
described  as  the  height  of  impertinence,  "  How  do  you  do, 
Mrs.  Prentice  ?     It  must  be  months  since  we  last  met." 

"  How  do  you  do.  Captain  Turner  ?  "  replied  Mrs.  Pren- 
tice coldly,  ignoring  his  proffered  hand.  "  Shall  we  go  rounc/ 
and  get  into  the  boat,  Fred  ?  " 

96 


'  A  PICNIC  AT  WARREN'S  HARD  97 

"  Better  wait  till  the  others  come,"  answered  Fred, 
*'  Well,  Turner,  I  hope  you're  prepared  to  take  your  share  of 
the  rowing." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Turner.  "  Mrs.  Prentice,  I  do  hope  I 
haven't  offended  you  in  any  way.  I  can't  help  feeling  that 
your  manner  is  not  very  cordial  to  me." 

Mrs.  Prentice  faced  him.  "  Cordial !  "  she  echoed.  "  I 
shall  be  cordial  to  you.  Captain  Turner,  when  I  see  you  fulfill- 
ing your  duties  as  a  Churchman  and  a  Christian.  The  great- 
est festival  of  the  Christian  year  has  come  and  gone,  and  you 
have  held  aloof  from  all  the  duties  and  privileges  connected 
with  it.     Cordial,  no." 

"  It  has  not  quite  gone  yet,  has  it  ? "  inquired  Turner 
meekly.  "  We  are  still  celebrating  the  octave,  you  know, . 
Mrs.  Prentice." 

"  We  are  celebrating  is  hardly  the  way  to  put  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Prentice.  "  I  think  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself. 
Captain  Turner,  not  coming  near  a  church  either  on  Good 
Friday  or  Easter  Day." 

"  I  say,  mother  !  "  Fred  interpolated. 

"  I  shall  speak  my  mind,  Fred,"  she  replied.  '*  When  I 
see  sin — shameless  sin,  and  vice  confronting  me,  I  shall  re- 
buke them  fearlessly." 

"Well,  then,  shut  up.  Turner,"  said  Fred.  "The  mater 
is  quite  right.  You're  a  shameless  old  heathen,  and  a  disgrace 
to  the  place." 

"  I  know  I  am  a  sinner,"  said  Turner ;  "  a  miserable  sin- 
ner. You  must  try  and  make  me  a  better  man,  Fred.  If 
you  came  here  more  often,  and  talked  to  me,  I  might  im- 
prove." 

The  arrival  of  the  rest  of  the  party  put  a  stop  to  a  further 
charge  of  amenities,  but  Mrs.  Prentice  was  greatly  ruffled,  and 
showed  it  in  the  way  she  received  Mrs.  Redcliffe's  greeting, 
and  the  more  watchful  handshakes  of  Hilda  and  Browne. 


98  EXTON  MANOR 

*'  Why  did  mother  ask  that  woman  ?  "  Hilda  inquired  of 
Browne,  as  they  all  turned  into  the  garden  of  the  Mill  House 
on  their  way  to  where  the  boat  was  lying.  "She  is  going 
to  make  herself  thoroughly  disagreeable  and  spoil  everything. 
She  is  getting  on  my  nerves." 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  like  that,"  pleaded  Browne.  **  Let's  keep 
the  peace,  whatever  we  do.     We  must  all  hang  together." 

Hilda  laughed  at  him.  "  It  strikes  me,"  she  said,  "  that 
that  friendliness  which  you  are  so  proud  of  in  Exton  isn't  so 
very  apparent  when  we  all  meet.  I  think  we  are  really  rather 
an  ill-assorted  lot  of  people." 

"  1  don't  think  so,"  said  honest  Browne.  "  You've  only 
got  to  make  a  few  allowances." 

The  baskets  had  already  been  brought  down  and  stowed 
away  in  the  boat.  The  voyagers  disposed  themselves,  Browne 
rowing  stroke,  Fred  bow,  and  Hilda  steering.  The  two  ladies 
were  on  either  side  of  her,  and  Turner  in  the  prow  of  the 
boat. 

They  rowed  out  on  to  the  broad,  shining  water,  which  at 
high  tide  formed  a  noble  river  between  its  wooded  banks,  and 
at  low  tide  was  a  stretch  of  brown  mud,  with  a  meagre  stream 
running  down  a  narrow  channel.  The  tide  was  nearly  at  its 
height  now,  and  its  flow  almost  imperceptible.  They  moved 
steadily  down  in  the  shallower  water.  It  would  be  harder 
work  rowing  up  again  later  on. 

Fred  had  his  own  thoughts  to  attend  to.  He  could  sec 
Hilda  above  Browne's  broad  shoulder  as  he  swung  forward, 
sitting  intent  on  her  task.  Her  eye  refused  to  be  caught  by 
his.  There  were  not  many  signs  as  yet  of  the  friendliness  she 
had  undertaken  not  to  withdraw  from  him,  he  said  to  himself, 
half-bitterly,  half-ruefuUy.  And  somehow,  as  he  sat  silent, 
rowing  regularly,  taking  a  glance  at  her  face  at  the  beginning 
of  each  stroke,  and  mentally  digesting  what  he  saw  there  as 
he  pulled  it  through,  he  did  not  feel  quite  so  sure  of  being  able 


A  PICNIC  AT  WARREN'S  HARD  99 

to  sustain  the  part  he  had  assigned  to  himself  the  day  before. 
He  would  give  that  up;  he  was  not  in  the  temper  for  it.  At 
all  costs,  he  must  get  back  into  her  friendship.  He  wanted 
her.  Enforced  abstinence  from  her  society,  when  he  had 
thought  that  he  would  be  able  to  enjoy  it  to  the  fullest  extent, 
had  bred  a  new  tenderness  in  him.  Of  a  sudden  his  mind  re- 
lented towards  her.  He  forgave  her  coldness,  and  leapt  into  a 
lover-like  state  of  mind,  humble  and  appreciative  of  her 
charms.  But  he  must  be  careful,  and  gain  her  sympathy  by 
playing  on  that  string  of  friendship  which  was  the  only  one 
left  whole  in  his  lover's  lyre. 

Mrs.  Prentice,  her  soul  rasped  to  roughness  by  Turner's 
veiled  impertinence,  was  in  the  mood  to  make  herself  un- 
pleasant, and  essayed  to  do  so,  but  found  her  armoury  defec- 
tive against  Mrs.  Redcliffe's  equable  courtesy  and  Browne's 
preoccupation  in  his  task,  which  beaded  his  forehead,  and 
monopolized  his  attention. 

"  I  hear,"  she  said,  "  that  Lord  Wrotham  found  time  to 
pay  you  a  visit  on  Thursday,  although  he  was  too  busy  to  do 
me  and  the  Vicar  the  same  honour." 

"  He  came  in  for  five  minutes  to  look  at  the  house,"  Mrs. 
Redcliffe  replied.  "  Mr.  Browne  is  very  proud  of  his  altera- 
tions, although  I  often  tell  him  that  if  it  were  not  for  the  fur- 
niture we  have  put  into  the  cottage  it  would  not  be  nearly  so 
attractive." 

Browne  grunted.  He  had  no  mental  energy  to  spare  for 
finding  or  expressing  ideas.    Mrs.  Prentice  returnedtotheattack. 

"  It  does  not  do  to  make  too  much  of  a  visit  from  a  young 
man  like  Lord  Wrotham,"  she  said  "  He  has  the  reputation 
of  being  very  wild.  Freddy  hears  about  him  in  London.  He 
does  not  happen  to  have  met  him,  but  they  have  many  mutual 
friends.  One  is  obliged,  of  course,  to  treat  the  patron  of  one's 
living  with  courtesy,  but  it  would  be  impossible  to  approve  of 
all  Lord  Wrotham's  goings  on." 


100  EXTON  MANOR 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  made  no  reply,  but  Hilda  said,  "  I  think  he 
is  awfully  nice.  It  is  a  pity  that  Fred  should  run  him  down 
here,  especially  if  he  does  not  know  him." 

Mrs.  Prentice  had  an  impulse  of  malevolence.  It  was  as 
she  had  expected.  These  people  had  inveigled  themselves 
into  an  intimacy  with  the  young  lord,  and  were  even  prepared 
to  give  themselves  airs  on  the  strength  of  it.  But  that  she 
would  stop. 

"  Of  course,  you  know  Lord  Wrotham  so  intimately, 
Hilda,"  she  said,  "  that  it  must  seem  very  impertinent  to  you 
my  venturing  to  discuss  him  at  all." 

"  Oh,  no,  we  don't  know  him  intimately,"  returned  Hilda. 
*'  But  he  was  very  nice,  and  I  don't  like  to  hear  people  run 
down  behind  their  backs." 

Mrs.  Redcliffe,  anxious  to  keep  the  peace,  said,  "  Lord 
Wrotham  did  not  come  to  see  us;  Mr.  Browne  brought  him 
to  see  the  house.  Do  not  be  so  hasty,  Hilda.  Mrs.  Prentice 
was  not  running  Lord  Wrotham  down." 

But  Mrs.  Prentice  could  speak  for  herself.  "  I  shall  cer- 
tainly say  what  I  please  about  Lord  Wrotham,  or  anybody 
else,"  she  said  heatedly.  ''  And  if  you  like  to  say  that  I  am 
annoyed  that  he  was  not  brought  to  see  me  and  the  Vicar,  it 
is  quite  true.  He  ought  to  have  been  brought.  It  was  owing 
to  us."  And  she  glanced  at  the  unfortunate  Browne,  who  did 
not  improve  matters  by  saying  — 

"  I'd  no  idea  of  taking  him  to  see  anybody.  There  wasn't 
time.  We  just  went  into  the  White  House  on  our  way  down, 
because,  as  Mrs.  RedclifFe  says,  he  wanted  to  see  the  altera- 
tions.    He  suggested  it  himself." 

Even  Mrs.  Prentice  could  hardly  say,  "  He  suggested  it 
because  Hilda  made  eyes  at  him  from  the  garden,"  but  that  is 
what  she  thought,  and  saved  the  retort  to  be  used  on  another 
occasion  in  an  amended  form. 

The    conversation    had    not    carried    further  than   where 


A  PICNIC  AT  WARREN'S  HARD  loi 

Browne  was  labouring  at  his  oar,  but  Turner  here  struck  in 
opportunely  from  the  bows,  "  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  I  haven't  been 
to  a  picnic  since  I  was  in  India.  Very  good  idea  of  youi;s. 
You  deserve  the  thanks  of  the  party." 

"  Hear,  hear,"  said  Fred  and  Browne,  and  Mrs.  Prentice 
came  in  a  late  third  with  a  bitter-sweet  — 

"Yes.  Don't  let  us  spoil  our  pleasure  by  wrangling. 
There  is  nothing  I  hate  more." 

Warren's  Hard,  where  they  presently  disembarked,  after 
a  row  of  two  or  three  miles  down  the  river,  was  a  place  of 
considerable  interest.  A  hundred  years  before  its  name  had 
been  on  men's  lips.  Great  three-deckers  and  smaller  ships  of 
the  line  had  been  built  here  and  launched  from  the  slips,  some 
of  them  to  gain  glory  and  a  name  on  the  deep  waters,  others 
to  meet  an  obscurer  fate,  but  all  of  them  to  carry  on  the  story 
of  England's  greatness  in  the  seas  of  the  world.  There  were 
traditions  of  great  festivals,  when  a  monster  of  the  deep, 
decked  with  fluttering  flags,  had  slid  from  the  dry  land  of 
its  strenuous  birth  into  the  waters  of  the  estuary,  amid  the 
plaudits  of  a  crowd  that  had  gathered  from  all  sides  to  see 
the  sight.  A  king  of  England  had  turned  aside  on  his  way 
to  the  delights  of  his  favourite  watering-place,  and  the  woods 
had  echoed  to  a  salute  of  guns  fired  in  his  honour  from  a 
battleship  still  in  the  bonds  of  her  making.  Great  admirals, 
their  names  in  history,  had  walked  by  the  water  and  heard 
the  din  of  carpenters'  hammers  on  the  stout  forest  timbers, 
and  perhaps  the  mightiest  of  them  all  had  watched  for  an 
hour,  out  of  many  that  went  to  her  building,  one  of  the  great 
ships  that  was  to  bear  his  flag  to  victory. 

Now,  all  that  was  left  of  the  place  that  had  seen  so  much 
activity  in  the  brave  years  of  a  past  century  was  a  little  sleepy 
hamlet,  two  rows  of  red-brick  cottages  on  either  side  of  a 
broad,  grass-grown  street,  one  of  them  flanked  by  the  house 
of  the  master-builder,  solid  and  unpretentious,  but  reminis- 


102  EXTON  MANOR 

cent  within  and  without  of  the  spacious  Georgian  days. 
Bathed  in  sunshine,  it  sloped  down  from  the  agricultural  and 
pastoral  land  above  it  to  a  riverside  slip  of  grass-land,  once 
trodden  to  bareness  by  many  feet,  and  lumbered  with  the 
accessories  of  industry.  The  slips,  which  had  been  the  centre 
of  all  the  work  which  went  on  in  and  around  it,  were  shallow 
declivities,  silted  up  with  river  mud,  or  narrow  basins  to  hold 
a  few  boats  and  a  river  yacht.  The  remote  stillness  of  woods 
and  fields  had  closed  in  on  all  sides,  and  thrown  a  green  veil 
of  forgetfulness  over  the  busy  memories  of  the  past. 

The  place  was  familiar  enough  to  the  party  which  now 
landed  at  it.  They  paid  no  tribute  to  its  tale  of  years,  beyond 
praising  its  beauty,  peaceful  in  the  Spring  sunshine.  They 
chose  a  spot  on  the  grass  by  the  river,  and  set  out  the  con- 
tents of  the  baskets.  The  men  dispersed  to  collect  sticks  for 
the  fire,  while  the  ladies  spread  a  cloth,  set  cups  and  filled 
plates.  Hilda  went  across  to  the  old  house  of  the  master- 
builder  to  borrow  a  big  kettle  from  its  present  inhabitant,  who 
carried  on  some  riverside  occupation  there,  and  used  the  large 
up-stairs  room,  in  which  the  master-builder  had  entertained 
guests  at  his  launchings,  for  miscellaneous  lumber.  Fred  had 
been  on  the  lookout  for  this,  and  left  his  stick-gathering  to 
join  her. 

"  I  will  carry  the  kettle  for  you,"  he  said. 

She  turned  no  very  gracious  look  on  him.  "Saunders 
would  have  brought  it,"  she  said. 

"  I  know,"  he  replied.  "  But  I  want  to  speak  to  you. 
Will  you  come  for  a  stroll  with  me  after  we  have  had  tea  ? " 

"  We  shall  be  going  back  almost  directly,"  she  said. 

"Not  for  half-an-hour  or  so.  Hilda,  do  say  yes.  I  am 
going  away  to-morrow,  and  I've  hardly  had  a  word  with  you 
since  I  came  down.  You  said  you'd  be  friends,  but  you  have 
kept  carefully  out  of  my  way  all  the  time." 

"  No,  I  haven't,"  she  said  hurriedly. 


A  PICNIC  AT  WARREN'S  HARD  103 

"  Well,  at  any  rate  I  haven't  seen  you  at  all.  You  must 
come.     You  needn't  be  afraid  of  my  playing  the  fool." 

She  did  not  want  to  be  pleaded  with  in  this  earnest  style, 
or  to  give  occasion  for  pleading.  "  I'm  not  in  the  least 
afraid,"  she  said,  with  a  little  laugh.  "  Very  well,  we  will 
have  a  little  walk.  I  want  to  hear  what  you  know  about  Lord 
Wrotham.     Mrs.  Prentice  says  that  you  disapprove  of  him." 

"  I  disapprove  of  Wrotham  !  "  he  exclaimed,  but  at  this 
point  the  amphibious  master  of  the  house  appeared  with  a 
huge  and  heavy  kettle,  and  insisted  on  carrying  it  to  the 
picnicking  ground,  also  on  taking  part  in  whatever  conversa- 
tion should  beguile  the  way,  so  that  nothing  more  was  said 
between  them  for  the  time  being. 

Mrs.  Prentice,  under  the  influence  of  the  sunshine  and  the 
tea,  relaxed  her  resentful  attitude,  and  became  even  friendly, 
and  half-an-hcur  passed  amicably.  Then  they  strolled  along 
the  bank,  and  it  was  not  difficult  for  Fred  to  walk  on  ahead 
with  Hilda,  rather  faster  than  the  rest,  and  to  continue  walk- 
ing while  the  rest  went  back  to  pack  up  the  baskets. 

"  Now  tell  me  about  Lord  Wrotham,"  Hilda  began.  "  Mr. 
Browne  brought  him  to  see  us,  and  he  was  so  nice  and 
friendly,  that  it  was  quite  a  shock  to  me  to  hear  that  you 
think  him  wild,  or  something  of  that  sort." 

"  I  don't  know  why  mother  should  repeat  things  I  say  in 
that  way,"  said  Fred.  "  I  told  her  what  every  one  knows 
who  goes  about  a  bit  in  London — that  he  has  got  rid  of  a 
tremendous  lot  of  money,  racing  and  so  on.  I  don't  want  to 
be  quoted  as  giving  him  a  bad  name  down  here." 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  our  talking — mother  and 
me.  We  are  very  discreet.  Besides,  we  liked  Lord  Wro- 
tham so  much  that  we  shouldn't  want  to  repeat  anything 
against  him." 

"  I'm  glad  you  liked  him,"  said  Fred  dryly. 

"  Why  ?  " 


104  EXTON  MANOR 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Look  here,  Hilda,  I  didn't  ask  you 
to  come  for  a  walk  to  talk  about  Wrotham.  I  wanted  to  talk 
of  something  about  myself." 

"  I  shall  be  interested  to  hear  it.'* 

"  I  hope  you  will.  You  know  I  have  been  beastly  extrava- 
gant, and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  I  have  heard  something  of  the  kind." 

"You  have  heard  it  from  me.  I  told  you  a  lot  last 
Christmas." 

"  Yes.  And  you  said  you  were  going  to  turn  over  a  new 
leaf  last  Christmas." 

"  I  did  say  so.     And  I  haven't.     But  I'm  going  to  now." 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  of  that.     Now  shall  we  go  back  ?  " 

"  No;  we  won't  go  back.  Hilda,  you  might  say  something 
to  encourage  a  fellow  a  bit.  It's  jolly  difficult  to  draw  in 
one's  horns  and  live  on  a  very  small  income  in  London,  when 
one  has  been  accustomed  to  live  in  quite  a  different  way." 

"  I  dare  say  it  is.  It  would  be  difficult  anywhere ;  at  least, 
it  would  be  unpleasant.  But,  after  all,  it  only  seems  to  be 
common  honesty." 

"  I  hope  you  don't  think  I  have  behaved  dishonestly. 
You  must  remember  that  it  is  my  own  money  that  I  am 
spending.  If  I  was  expecting  somebody  else  to  pay  my 
debts  it  would  be  different." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  that  it  would  be  different.  But,  at  any 
rate,  it  is  not  my  affair." 

"  I  wish  you  would  make  it  your  affair,  then.  You  can't 
think  how  it  would  help  me  to — to  pull  up  and  work  hard 
at  something  if  I  thought  you  cared  at  all  about  what  I  did. 
We  have  been  friends,  and  you  said  we  would  remain  friends. 
Friends  ought  to  sympathize  with  each  other  in  their  diffi- 
culties." 

"  Well,  I  am  your  friend  to  that  extent,  Fred.  I  do  care, 
I  should  like  to  think  of  you  working  hard  in  London,  and 


A  PICNIC  AT  WARREN'S  HARD  105 

not   getting   into   any    more   of  the  difficulties  you  told  me 
about." 

She  turned  a  frank  gaze  of  friendliness  on  him,  her  warm 
and  constant  nature  triumphing  over  the  pique  which  she 
had  allowed  to  sway  her.  He  felt  as  if  the  sun  had  shone 
out  of  the  cold  clouds,  and  was  melted  to  tenderness.  "  It  is 
like  you  to  say  that,"  he  said,  "  and  it  wasn't  like  you  to  say 
my  difficulties  were  no  afFair  of  yours.  Well,  father  and  I 
had  it  out  together  again.  We  are  going  to  clear  up  every- 
thing— it  doesn't  amount  to  much  this  time,  just  over  two 
hundred — and  start  clear  for  the  second  time." 

"That  is  splendid.  I  hate  the  very  idea  of  debt.  And 
you  are  going  to  work  hard  now,  aren't  you  ?  You  know 
you  told  me  how  you  had  been  slacking  it,  as  you  said." 

"  Yes,"  said  Fred,  rather  more  dubiously.  "  But,  you 
know,  there  isn't  really  much  to  work  at  until  I'm  called. 
Just  reading  in  chambers,  and  preparing  for  the  bar  examin- 
ation. I  shall  get  through  that  all  right.  But  I  was  going 
to  tell  you,  Hilda.  I'm  going  to  keep  my  eyes  wide  open 
for  an  opportunity  of  getting  into  something  better  than  the 
bar — something  in  which  I  can  use  the  money  I've  got.  And 
when  I've  found  it,  I'm  going  to  work  like  a  nigger  at  it." 

"  H'm  !  "  commented  Hilda.  "  I  think  it  is  rather  a  pity 
to  be  going  in  for  one  thing,  and  thinking  of  another  all  the 
time." 

"  I  should  never  do  very  much  at  the  bar,  you  know.  But 
I  think  I  could  do  very  well  in  some  business  that  suited  me. 
You'll  wish  me  luck,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  Fred ;  the  best  of  luck  in  whatever  you  take 
up.     But,  come,  we  must  be  going  back." 

They  turned,  and  Hilda  went  on,  with  a  didactic  kindness 
which  consorted,  as  Fred  thought,  most  charmingly  with  the 
fresh  bloom  of  her  youth.  "  I  don't  think  it  matters  murfc 
what  a  man  works  at,  as  long  as  he  does  work,  and  doesD'v 


io6  EXTON  MANOR 

live  for  pleasure,  especially  selfish,  extravagant  pleasure. 
You  know,  you  are  quite  content  with  simple  pleasures  down 
here,  and  then  you  go  back  to  London  and  forget  about 
everything  but  amusing  yourself.  It  is  that  I  was  annoyed 
about — for,  of  course,  I  was  annoyed  ;  I  don't  mind  saying 
so  now  it's  all  over." 

"  I  shouldn't  be  content  with  simple  pleasures  down  here 
if  it  wasn't  for  you,  Hilda.  I  haven't  been  very  content  the 
last  few  days." 

"  You  weren't  to  say  that  sort  of  thing  ;  but  I'll  let  it  pass 
for  once.  At  any  rate,  the  simple  pleasures,  with  me  or 
without  me,  didn't  count  for  much  when  you  got  back  to 
London  again." 

"  Yes,  they  did.  But  I  am  a  fool.  Now  I'm  going  to  be 
a  fool  no  longer.  And  I  shall  come  down  here  very  soon 
again." 

"  Come  down  at  Whitsuntide,  as  you  said  you  would. 
Test  your  new  resolution  by  sticking  to  work  for  the  next 
six  weeks." 

"You  help  and  encourage  a  fellow  when  you  are  like  that, 
Hilda.     It  is  something  to  work  for — your  approbation." 

"  You'll  have  my  approbation  as  long  as  you  behave  your- 
self, Fred.  It  seems  to  me  I'm  talking  very  much  like  a 
schoolmistress.  Goodness  knows,  I've  got  plenty  of  faults 
myself." 

"  I  can't  see  them.  I  think  you're  the  best  girl  in  the 
world,  as  well  as  the  nicest.  I  say,  I  aon't  think  I  need  go 
on  to  Dorsetshire  until  Wednesday.  Will  you  come  for  a 
long  walk  in  the  forest  to-morrow,  and  talk  to  me  further  for 
my  good  .''  " 

"  No.  Keep  your  engagement ;  and  if  you  can  knock  a 
day  off  it,  go  back  to  London  and  set  to  work.  It  is  quite 
time  you  did." 

They  had  now  got  back  to  Warren's  Hard.     The  baskets 


A  PICNIC  AT  WARREN'S  HARD  icy 

were  already  packed,  and  the  rest  of  the  party  ready  to  start. 
Fred  anJ  Turner  rowed  them  back  to  Exton.  Fred  felt  that 
he  could  have  pulled  twice  as  far  against  a  still  stronger 
tide.  Hilda  was  splendid,  and  how  kind !  She  knew  how 
to  get  the  best  out  of  a  fellow,  and  it  made  you  feel  worth 
something  when  a  girl  like  that  took  the  trouble  to  advise 
you,  and  show  that  she  cared  about  what  you  did  with  your 
life.  He  was  very  much  in  love  with  her,  far  more  than  he 
had  ever  thought  it  possible  that  he  could  be  with  a  girl  whom 
he  had  known  since  her  childhood,  and  gone  about  with  as 
if  she  were  his  sister.  By  Jove,  he  would  show  her  that 
he  was  worthy  of  her  interest,  and  when  he  came  back  to 
Exton,  in  six  weeks'  time — perhaps  a  little  sooner — well,  he 
would  see ;  there  was  no  telling  how  far  his  feelings  would 
take  him. 


CHAPTER  IX 

LADY    WROTHAM 

Lady  Wroth  am  arrived  at  Exton  early  on  a  wet  and 
windy  Saturday  afternoon,  and  drove  from  the  station  in  a 
closed  carriage.  The  few  wayfarers  who  were  passed  on 
the  road  between  the  station  and  the  village,  and  those  who 
braved  the  downpour  to  linger  in  the  stretch  of  road  between 
the  village  and  the  Abbey  to  catch  an  early  glimpse  of  her 
ladyship,  saw  a  face,  framed  in  black,  peering  out  through 
the  wet  glass,  and  nothing  more,  except  an  elderly  maid 
seated  opposite.  An  autocratic  old  woman,  coming  to 
dominate  from  a  big  house  the  lives  of  the  lesser  ones  of  the 
earth  whose  dwellings  clustered  round  it;  or,  perhaps,  a 
rather  sad  old  woman,  coming  to  live  alone  in  the  place 
where  the  first  happy  days  of  her  married  life  had  been  spent ; 
she  was  to  these  gazers  merely  an  unknown,  but  interesting, 
factor  in  their  own  lives,  and  drove  in  beneath  the  gateway  of 
the  Abbey,  watched  by  curious  eyes. 

Mrs.  Prentice  would  have  liked  to  line  the  road  from  the 
bridge  to  the  gate  house  with  school  children,  herself  at  the 
head  of  them,  with  perhaps  a  flag  or  two,  and  a  few  words  of 
respectful  welcome.  Mrs.  Prentice  had  broached  the  subject 
to  her  husband,  who  had  demurred  to  the  suggestion. 

*'  She  is  a  recently-made  widow,"  said  the  Vicar,  "  coming 
here  to  end  her  days  quietly.  It  is  no  time  for  display  and  re- 
joicing." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,  William,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice. 
"  It  will  be  better  for  you  and  me  to  go  to  the  Abbey  in  the 
afternoon — about  tea-time.     I  should  not  like  Lady  Wrotham 

xo8 


LADY  WROTHAM  109 

to  come  here  and  feel  that  there  is  no  one  who  is  pleased  to  see 
her." 

**  I  don't  Icnow  that  I  am  very  pleased  to  see  her,"  replied 
the  Vicar.  "  She  is  a  member  of  the  Women's  Reformation 
League,  and  may  feel  inclined  to  interfere  in  my  work." 

"There  is  nothing  she  could  object  to  here,"  said  Mrs. 
Prentice ;  "  no  extreme  practices.  The  Catholic  faith  is  taught, 
of  course,  or  as  much  of  it  as  is  desirable ;  but  the  ritual  is 
moderate,  and  could  offend  nobody." 

*'  I  don't  know  so  much  about  that.  The  Women's  Ref- 
ormation League  is  offended  very  easily,  and  if  Lady  Wro- 
tham  is  an  active  member  of  it,  as  I  am  told  is  the  case,  there 
will  probably  be  trouble.  At  any  rate,  I  would  rather  wait  until 
after  Sunday  before  I  pay  my  respects  to  her.  Then  she  will 
know  the  best,  or  worst,  of  me — if  she  comes  to  church,  as  I 
suppose  she  will — and  I  shall  know  where  I  stand.  But 
you  might  as  well  go  by  yourself." 

Mrs.  Prentice  was  quite  ready  to  go  by  herself,  and  rang 
for  admittance  at  the  Abbey  shortly  before  fi\^e  o'clock.  She 
was  shown,  after  a  short  wait  in  the  hall,  into  a  large  room, 
half  library,  half  morning-room,  where  Lady  Wrotham  was 
seated  comfortably  in  an  easy-chair  by  her  tea-table. 

"  I  hope  you  will  excuse  my  getting  up,"  she  said,  as  her 
visitor  walked  across  the  room.  "  I  have  an  attack  of  rheuma- 
tism, and  I  have  only  just  settled  myself  down  here." 

Mrs.  Prentice  said,  "  Oh,  pray  do  not  move,"  and  murmured 
her  condolence  for  the  temporary  affliction. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Lady  Wrotham.  "  It  is  such  a  common 
thing  with  me  that  I  don't  worry  about  it,  but  just  take  it  as  it 
comes.  Please  sit  down,  Mrs.  Prentice.  I  am  very  glad  to  see 
you".  If  you  had  not  come  so  kindly  of  your  own  accord,  I 
should  have  written  a  note  to  beg  you  to  do  so.  I  wished  to 
have  a  conversation  with  you." 

Mrs.  Prentice  congratulated  herself  on  the  promptitude  of 


no  EXTON  MANOR 

her  visit,  and,  during  the  foregoing  speech,  took  into  her 
mind  as  much  as  she  was  able  of  the  speaker's  appearance  and 
manner. 

Lady  Wrotham  sat  upright  in  her  low  chair.  She  was  short, 
and,  but  for  her  exalted  rank,  might  have  been  called  dumpy. 
But  there  was  something  commanding  about  her  presence, 
which  neither  dumpiness  nor  lack  of  height  could  extinguish. 
She  wore  a  plain  black  dress,  with  a  cameo  brooch  at  the  neck, 
and  a  widow's  cap;  but  if  there  was  something  old-fashioned 
about  her  attire,  she  wore  it  with  dignity,  and  it  seemed  to  suit 
her.  Her  eye  was  clear  and  searching,  and  her  mouth  firm. 
She  did  not  smile  as  she  addressed  Mrs.  Prentice,  apologizing 
for  her  disablement,  but  her  manner  was  courteous. 

Mrs.  Prentice  was  all  smiles.  "  I  thought  I  should  like  to 
be  the  first  to  welcome  you  to  Exton,"  she  said.  "  My  hus- 
band would  have  accompanied  me,  but,  as  you  know,  Lady 
Wrotham — or,  perhaps  you  do  not  know,  Saturday  afternoon 
is  a  busy  time  with  a  clergyman." 

"  I  know  it  ought  to  be,"  replied  Lady  Wrotham,  "  and  I 
am  glad  that  it  is  so  with  your  husband.  A  minister  cannot 
prepare  too  carefully  for  his  preaching  of  the  Word." 

Mrs.  Prentice  did  not  quite  like  this,  and  thought  the  word 
"  minister  "  out  of  place.  She  was  accustomed  to  use  the  word 
''  priest,"  but  had  compromised  on  "  clergyman,"  in  deference 
to  the  views  that  might  be  supposed  to  be  held  by  a  member 
of  the  Women's  Reformation  League.  "  Minister "  was 
quite  another  affair.  But  she  was  anxious,  at  all  costs,  to 
avoid  controversy,  so  she  said,  "  My  husband  is  very  conscien- 
tious about  his  preaching.  He  does  not  believe,  as  some  do, 
that  it  is  of  no  use  at  all." 

"  I  should  hope  not,"  said  Lady  Wrotham. 

"  He  preaches  two  sermons  every  Sunday  here — two  fresh 
sermons — and  one  at  the  Marsh,  and  another  one  on  Wednes- 
day evening  at  Warren's  Hard.     It  takes  him  a  long  time  to 


LADY  WROTHAM  iii 

prepare  them,  and,  of  course,  he  has  all  his  visiting  and  other 
parish  work  to  do  as  well." 

"It  is  too  much  for  one  man." 

"  So  I  tell  him.  The  Marsh  is  five  miles  off,  and  Warren's 
Hard  over  two.  But  he  is  so  earnest  about  his  work.  He 
will  do  it." 

"  Of  course  the  work  must  be  done.  But  in  so  large  and 
scattered  a  parish  there  ought  to  be  a  curate." 

"  I  wish  my  husband  could  afford  to  keep  one ;  but,  what 
with  a  man  and  a  boy  for  the  stables  and  garden,  which  must 
be  kept  up  to  a  certain  extent " 

"  Well,  we  must  talk  about  that  another  time.  I  should 
like  to  ask  you  a  few  questions  now,  Mrs.  Prentice,  about  the 
place  and  the  people.  As  the  wife  of  the  Vicar,  you  will  no 
doubt  be  able  to  help  me  to  become  acquainted  with  my  new 
surroundings.  As  I  have  said,  I  am  very  glad  you  have 
called,  because  here  I  am  now,  and  here  I  shall  stay,  God 
willing,  for  the  rest  of  my  life,  and  I  may  as  well  begin  at 
once  to  know  my  way.  You  will  be  kind  enough,  I  am  sure, 
to  assist  me." 

How  gladly  !  Mrs.  Prentice's  heart  warmed  towards  her. 
"Indeed  I  will,"  she  said.  "You  cannot  think.  Lady 
Wrotham,  what  a  pleasure  it  is  to  me  to  have  you  here,  to 
advise  and  control.  Everything  has  been  on  my  shoulders, 
so  far ;  everything,  that  is,  that  some  woman  must  take  the 
lead  in,  and  I  so  gladly  deliver  up  my  charge  into  your 
hands." 

"  H'm  ! "  grunted  Lady  Wrotham,  with  a  sharp  glance  at 
her.  "Sir  Joseph  Chapman,  I  suppose,  had  no  lady  living 
here  ?  " 

"His  sister  lived  with  him  until  she  died,  two  years  ago. 
But  she  was  an  invalid,  and  not  of  much  account.  She  was 
a  Swedenborgian,  but  it  did  not  matter  so  very  much,  as  she 
was  hardly  ever  able  to  leave  the  house." 


112  EXTON  MANOR 

"  Sir  Joseph,  I  believe,  kept  up  what  charities  were 
necessary  ?  " 

"  Yes  }  he  was  most  generous — never  appealed  to  in  vain." 

"  I  must  go  into  that  question  with  the  Vicar.  I  shall,  of 
course,  do  what  is  necessary,  but  I  do  not  believe  in  pauperiz- 
ing. I  make  it  a  rule  to  devote  the  utmost  care  to  my 
benefactions.  I  believe  far  more  in  personal  talk  and  advice 
than  in  money  and  help,  although  that  I  give  ungrudgingly 
when  it  is  required.  There  are  others,  I  suppose,  who  visit 
the  poor.     You  do,  I  know.     Mrs.  O'Keefe  ?  " 

'*  Mrs.  O'Keefe  would  do  anything  that  was  desired  of  her, 
I  am  sure.  But  we  have  no  regular  system  of  district  visit- 
ing. I  have  not  encouraged  it,  as  it  is  not  necessary ;  not 
necessary,  that  is,  from  the  point  of  view  of  charity,  for  there 
are  very  few  really  poor  people  in  the  parish,  and  what  there 
are  the  Vicar  and  I  have  looked  after,  with  Sir  Joseph's  help." 

'*  But  it  is  a  good  thing,  I  think,  for  ladies  in  a  country 
village  to  visit  the  poor,  and  to — to  see  that  they  are  be- 
having themselves.  The  clergyman  can  do  much,  but  I  be- 
lieve strongly  in  the  influence  of  good  women." 

"  Of  course  you  are  so  very  right.  Lady  Wrotham.  My 
own  labours  in  that  way  are  sometimes  actually  exhausting ; 
but,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  there  are  no  other  women  in  the 
place  who — er — well,  I  don't  quite  know  how  to  put  it — who 
would  be  capable  of  helping  them  spiritually." 

"Oh,  indeed  !     That  is  rather  a  grave  state  of  things." 

"  Pray  do  not  think  that  I  mean  to  imply  anything  serious 
— against  anybody.  But  Mrs.  O'Keefe,  you  see,  is  so  very 
young — hardly  more  than  a  girl." 

"  She  is  a  widow,  and  quite  old  enough  to  do  her  duty." 

"  Oh,  yes,  and  she  would,  I  am  sure.  She  is  very  kind- 
hearted,  and  the  people  like  her.  But,  as  I  say — perhaps  I 
have  been  wrong — I  have  not  encouraged  her  to  go  about 
among  them.     Still,  if  you  wish  it,  Lady  Wrotham " 


LADY  WROTHAM  113 

"  I  think  she  must  be  set  to  work.  It  will  do  herself  as 
much  good  as  the  poor — perhaps  more.  But  there  is  Mrs. 
RedclifFe.  She  is  an  older  woman,  with  a  grown-up  daughter, 
is  she  not  ?  " 

Mrs.  Prentice  pursed  her  thin  lips.  "  I  think,"  she  said 
stiffly,  "  you  would  probably  find  Mrs.  RedclifFe  more  than 
ready  to  undertake  whatever  you  require  of  her.  Lady 
Wroth  am." 

"  H'm  !     But  you  mean  something  more  than  you  say.** 

"  It  is  the  most  disagreeable  thing  in  the  world  to  me  even 
to  appear  to  be  running  people  down.  And  as  for  saying 
things  behind  their  backs  that  I  wouldn't  say  to  their  faces — 
well,  I  wouldn't  do  it.  But  Mrs.  RedclifFe — ^you  must  under- 
stand that  she  is,  I  was  going  to  say,  a  nobody.  And  if  she 
has  a  fault — which  her  daughter  shares — she  would  be  in- 
clined, I  am  sadly  afraid,  to  pay  court  to — to " 

"  To  a  title.  I  quite  understand.  Many  people  do.  I  am 
quite  used  to  that  little  failing,  and  if  it  is  not  too  blatant  I  can 
put  up  with  it.'* 

*'  Well,  I  need  say  no  more  upon  that  score  then.  It  is 
very  distasteful  to  me  to  have  to  say  anything  at  all.  But  it 
was  really  so  very  marked.  When  Lord  Wrotham  came 
down  here  for  the  day,  they — Mrs.  RedclifFe  and  her  daughter 
— made  what  I  can  only  describe  as  a  dead  set  at  him." 

"  Did  they  ?  "  said  Lady  Wrotham  grimly. 

"  Oh,  it  was  most  marked.  I  thought  that  Lord  Wrotham 
might  perhaps  like  to  have  some  conversation  with  my  hus- 
band, and  took  the  liberty  of  asking  him  to  luncheon.  But 
Mrs.  RedclifFe  had  already  got  hold  of  him,  if  I  may  use  the 
expression,  and  by  the  time  he  got  away  from  the  White 
House,  he  had  no  leisure  left  to  do  more  than  drive  round  the 
Manor  with  Mr.  Browne  before  going  back  to  town." 

"  Probably  Miss  RedclifFe  is  a  good-looking  girl." 

*'  Well — some  people  might  consider  her  so,  I  suppose." 


114  EXTON  MANOR 

"  I  think  she  must  be  good-looking,  or  Lord  Wrotham 
would  certainly  not  have  put  himself  out  to  visit  at  the  house. 
You  need  give  yourself  no  anxiety  on  the  score  of  his  actions, 
Mrs.  Prentice.     They  will  certainly  not  be  followed  by  me." 

Mrs.  Prentice  was  pleased  to  hear  this ;  she  felt  that  she 
was  getting  on  well.  But  she  was  not  qqite  as  elated  as 
might  have  been  expected.  She  had  received  nothing  but 
kindness  from  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  and  must  have  known  in  her 
heart  of  hearts  that  she  did  not  deserve  the  things  that  she 
had  said  of  her.  But  the  grudges  of  a  spiteful  woman  are 
greedy,  and  clamour  to  be  satisfied.  She  hastened  to  discount 
the  charges  which  her  conscience  would  presently  bring  against 
her.  "  Of  course,"  she  said,  "  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  with  all  her 
faults,  is  a  good  woman.  She  would  only  be  too  pleased  to 
go  about  amongst  the  poor,  if  there  were  any  necessity  for  it. 
Still,  her  views  on  religion  are  not  quite  such  as  might  be  ex- 
pected from  a  good  Churchwoman,  and  I  have  felt  that  if  she 
were  to  interfere  to  any  extent  in  the  parish  work,  she  might 
only  undo  the  influence  that  my  husband  and  I  strive  to 
create." 

"  She  does  well,  perhaps,"  said  Lady  Wrotham,  *'  to  keep 
quiet,  in  her  particular  situation." 

*'  Oh,  yes.  It  would  not  do  to  encourage  her  to  take  a 
leading  part." 

*'  Do  you  find  that  there  is  any  disagreeableness — any 
scandal — in  connection  with  her  story  ?  I  suppose  every  one 
about  here  knows  of  it  ?  " 

"Scandal !  Story  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Prentice,  pricking  up 
her  ears. 

"  Is  it  not  known,  then  ?  " 

"I — I — don't  quite  know  to  what  you  refer,  Lady  Wro- 
tham." 

Lady  Wrotham  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "  Perhaps  I  havr 
made  a  mistake  in  mentioning;  it,"  she  said.     "  Like  you^  1 


LADY  WROTH  AM  115 

am  very  averse  to  creating  mischief.  But  as  I  have  gone  so 
far,  I  suppose  I  must  go  farther.  Only,  I  beg  of  you  not  to 
make  the  matter  public,  if  she  has  really  succeeded  in  keep- 
ing it  secret,  which  I  confess  I  should  not  have  thought  pos- 
sible." 

"  Oh,  indeed,  you  may  rely  on  my  discretion,"  said  Mrs. 
Prentice,  hiding  as  far  as  possible  the  state  of  eager  excitement 
in  which  she  now  found  herself. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Redcliffe  married  her  sister's  husband.  Of 
course,  in  Australia  such  a  marriage  is  quite  regular.  When 
I  was  out  there  with  Lord  Wrotham  I  heard  of  it.  Mrs. 
Redcliffe  is  not  exactly  a — a  '  nobody,'  as  you  have  thought, 
though  no  doubt  she  is  wise  under  the  circumstances  to  draw 
as  little  attention  as  possible  to  whatever  claims  of  birth  she 
might  put  forward.  Her  father  was  a  son  of  the  Dean  of 
Carchester,  who  was  one  of  the  Stuarts  of  Dornasheen.  He 
emigrated  to  Australia  in  his  youth,  and  became  a  wealthy 
squatter.  Captain  Redcliffe,  one  of  the  Worcestershire  Red- 
cliffes,  went  out  on  Lord  Chippenham's  staff,  and  married  and 
settled  there.  His  wife  died  within  a  year,  and  then  he  mar- 
ried her  sister,  Mrs.  Redcliffe,  who  lives  here.  He  did  not 
live  very  long  after  that  himself.  I  did  not  realize,  until  after 
Mrs.  Redcliffe  had  come  to  live  here,  who  she  was;  I  was  not 
in  the  way  of  hearing  much  about  the  Exton  tenantry,  or  per- 
haps  I  might  have However,  that  is  Mrs.  Redcliffe's 

history." 

Mrs.  Prentice  was  shrewd  enough  not  to  betray  the  acute 
enjoyment  which  the  recital  had  caused  her.  She  was  anxious 
now  to  get  away  and  consider  how  best  she  might  deal  with 
the  information. 

"  Thank  you  for  telling  it  to  me.  Lady  Wrotham,"  she 
said.  "  You  will  have  no  objection,  I  suppose,  to  my  disclos- 
ing it  to  my  husband." 

"  N-o.     But  I  do  not  wish  it  put  about  all  over  the  county." 


ii6  EXTON  MANOR 

"  Oh,  indeed,  I  should  not  think  of  doing  such  a  thing.  I 
am  so  grateful  for  your  confidence,  Lady  Wrotham.  You 
may  rely  upon  me  as  a  willing  helper  in  all  your  exertions  for 
the  welfare  of  the  place.  I  hope  you  will  look  upon  me  as 
your  lieutenant.     It  is  such  a  joy  to  welcome  you  here." 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Prentice.  I  do  not  intend  to  live  idly. 
The  years  that  remain  to  me  will  be  employed  to  the  best  of 
my  ability,  and  I  hope  they  will  be  employed  in  Exton.  I 
wish  to  make  friends  with  the  people.  Perhaps  you  will 
kindly  let  it  be  known  that  I  shall  be  glad  if  they  will  call  on 
me  in  the  ordinary  way.  I  must  not  be  supposed  to  give  my- 
self airs  over  them,  you  know." 

This  was  said  with  the  hint  of  a  smile.  Mrs.  Prentice's 
somewhat  confused  reply  conveyed  her  appreciation  of  the 
pleasantry,  together  with  her  opinion  that  airs  from  such  a 
quarter  could  only  be  looked  upon  as  a  gratifying  condescension. 

"And  perhaps  you  and  your  husband  will  give  me  the 
pleasure  of  your  company  at  dinner  to-morrow  night  at  a  quarter- 
past  eight.     The  evening  service  is  at  half-past  six,  is  it  not  ?  " 

Mrs.  Prentice  said  that  it  was,  accepted  the  invitation  for 
herself  and  her  husband,  and  then  took  her  leave. 

Those  whom  she  met  on  her  way  from  the  Abbey  to  the 
vicarage  received  scant  notice  from  her.  Her  mind  was  full 
of  the  revelation  she  had  received,  which  even  obliterated  the 
memory  of  the  success  she  conceived  herself  to  have  obtained 
in  initiating  an  intimacy  with  her  patroness.  To  think  of  it ! 
A  woman  of  that  sort !  And  she  had  allowed  her  to  claim  an 
equality  with  herself,  the  virtuous  wife  and  mother,  who  shud- 
dered, yes,  actually  shuddered  at  the  very  idea  of  looseness  in 
the  marriage  tie.  As  she  said  these  words  to  herself  her 
muscles,  obedient  to  her  mind,  did  produce  a  quite  creditable 
contraction,  and  her  outraged  virtue  rose  to  heights  still  more 
sublime.  No  wonder  such  a  woman  gave  dinner  parties  on  a 
Friday,  and  had  shirked  the  holy  fatigue  of  the  three  hours' 


LADY  WROTHAM  117 

service !  It  was  surprising  that  she  had  the  face  to  go  to 
church  at  all.  By  the  time  Mrs.  Prentice  reached  her  own 
hitherto  undefiled  home,  she  had  attained  a  level  of  indignation 
from  which  she  threw  the  name  Messalina  at  Mrs.  RedclifFe. 
She  had  the  vaguest  ideas  as  to  the  character  and  pursuits  of 
Messalina,  but  felt  she  had  produced  something  epigrammatic 
in  doing  so. 

She  found  the  Vicar  seated  in  front  of  his  study  fire,  perus- 
ing the  Church  Times.  He  looked  up  at  her  as  she  entered 
with  a  shade  of  apology.  "Just  finished  all  my  work,"  he 
said.     "  Well,  how  did  you  get  on  with  Lady  Wrotham  ?  " 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  replied  Mrs.  Prentice.  "  William,  I 
have  just  heard  a  thing  that  has  made  my  blood  boil." 

"  Not  a  bad  thing  this  cold  weather,"  returned  the  Vicar 
pleasantly.     "  Sit  down  and  tell  me  about  it." 

Mrs.  Prentice  sat  down.  "  It  is  not  a  matter  to  jest  about," 
she  said.  "  If  you  found  you  had  been  nursing  a  viper  to 
your  bosom — a  viper  sheltering  under  a  reputation  for  kindness 
and  goodness  from  the  charge  of  being  an  indifferent  Church- 
woman,  what  should  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  should  send  it  to  the  Natural  History  Museum.  It 
would  be  a  most  unusual  viper." 

Mrs.  Prentice  rose.  "  I  will  tell  you  what  I  have  discov- 
ered when  you  are  in  a  fit  state  to  receive  it,"  she  said.  "  I 
come  to  you  with  a  most  serious  piece  of  news,  and  you  make 
foolish  jokes." 

"  Well,  tell  me  your  news,  Agatha." 

Mrs.  Prentice  sat  down  again.  "  Do  you  know,"  she  said, 
**  that  there  is  a  woman  living  amongst  us,  respected  by  all — 
except  me — who,  before  she  came  here,  was  living  in  adultery  ?  " 

"  What  woman  ?  " 

«  Mrs.  RedclifFe." 

"  Oh,  come  now,  Agatha.  You  know  such  a  thing  cannot 
be  true." 


ii8  EXTON  MANOR 

"  It  is  true,  William.  I  had  it  from  L>zdy  Wrotham  her- 
self. You  would  not  accuse  her,  I  suppose,  of  lying,  what- 
ever you  may  choose  to  say  of  your  own  wife.  She  has  just 
told  me  the  whole  story." 

"  What  did  she  tell  you  ?     What  is  the  story  ?  " 

"  First  of  all,  what  do  you  think  of  this  ?  Mrs.  Redcliffe 
is  not  the  obscure  woman  she  is  supposed  to  be.  Everybody 
knows  her  own  people — I  forget  their  name ;  and  her  hus- 
band— although  he  was  not  her  husband — was  an  officer  of  a 
distinguished  family  who  went  out  to  Australia  with  Lord 
Somebody.     Has  she  ever  mentioned  these  facts  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  say  she  has ;  but  why  should  she  ?  Women  of 
good  birth  are  not  always  poking  their  ancestry  down  the 
throats  of  their  neighbours." 

**  That  is  a  mere  quibble.  Of  course,  one  would  have 
known  these  things  of  anybody  who  had  no  reason  to  hide  a 
tale  of  shame.  However,  that  is  a  small  point,  compared  to 
the  great  sin  of  which  she  is  guilty.  Captain  RedclifFe  was 
married  to  her  sister,  who  died  shortly  afterwards.  And  this 
woman  then  formed  a  connection  with  him.  Think  of  it ! 
It  positively  makes  me  shudder."  Here  Mrs.  Prentice  made 
another  call  on  the  muscles  of  her  neck  and  shoulders,  which 
responded  to  it  as  before. 

*'  How  do  you  mean — z  connection  ?  What  sort  of  con- 
nection ? " 

"  She  actually  went  through  a  form  of  marriage  with 
him.  Strictly  speaking,  you  might  say  she  had  committed 
bigamy  with  him." 

"  Don't  talk  nonsense.  Wait  a  minute.  She  was  the 
deceased  wife's  sister.  Well,  such  a  marriage  is,  unfortu- 
nately, valid  in  the  colonies." 

*'  Valid,  William !  And  you,  a  priest,  are  willing  to 
shelter  yourself  behind  a  wicked  civil  evasion  of  the  Church's 
iaw  of  that  sort !  " 


LADY  WROTH  AM  119 

"  I  don't  say  that  I  am.  I  think  the  law  is  a  most  un- 
fortunate one,  as  I  said.  And  in  any  case  such  a  marriage 
is  still  irregular  as  far  as  this  country  is  concerned,  and  I 
trust  always  will  be.  I  deprecate  the  breaking  down  of  these 
safeguards  against  morality  as  much  as  you  do.  At  the  same 
time,  it  is  extravagant  to  talk  of  Mrs.  RedclifFe  as  having 
lived  in  adultery,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  And  pray  why  ?  Does  the  Church  recognize  such  a 
marriage  ?     Answer  me  that." 

"  Of  course  the  Church  does  not  recognize  it ;  although 
I  have  no  doubt  that  Mrs.  Redcliffe  was  married  in  a 
church." 

"  Pah  !  Another  quibble.  The  Church  does  not  recognize 
it,  whatever  some  disloyal  priests  may  do  in  out-of-the-way 
parts  of  the  world.  And  anybody  who  defies  the  Church 
by  entering  upon  such  a  travesty  of  the  marriage  tie  lives  in 
adultery.  Have  the  courage  of  your  convictions,  William, 
and  acknowledge  that  it  is  so." 

"  I  do  not  say  that  you  are  not  right.  But  we  are  no 
longer  a  Christian  society.  We  must  resist  a  further  inva- 
sion of  Christian  law  to  the  utmost,  but  we  must  also  exercise 
charity,  and  recognize  that  those  whose  eyes  have  not  been 
opened  to  their  full  privileges  are  not  guilty  in  the  same  sense 
that  we  should  be  if  we  acted  in  the  same  way." 

"  Oh,  I  have  no  patience  with  that  sort  of  argument. 
Right  is  right.  Mrs.  RedclifFe — I  don't  know  what  the 
woman's  real  name  is,  though  Lady  Wrotham  did  tell  me — 
and  would  you  believe  it  ? — her  grandfather  was  actually  a 
dignitary  of  the  English  Church — but  I  suppose  1  must  go 
on  calling  her  Mrs.  RedclifFe — has  been  living  in  sin,  and  it 
is  only  the  fact  that  her — the  word  sticks  in  my  throat — 
her  husband  died  prevents  her  from  living  in  sin  now.  I 
shall  certainly  refuse  to  have  anything  more  to  do  with  her, 
and   I  hardly  see  how  you,  as  a  priest,  can  do  otherwise.     I 


120  EXTON  MANOR 

suppose  you  will,  at  any  rate,  refuse  to  admit  her  ar»y  longef 
to  the  altar." 

"  Really,  Agatha !  "  exclaimed  the  Vicar  with  some  heat. 
"  Your  attitude  seems  to  me  a  shocking  one.  If  this  poor 
lady,  of  whom  we  have  known  nothing  but  good  since  she 
has  lived  amongst  us — if  she  has  made  a  mistake  in  her  life, 
surely  we  ought  to  be  sorry  for  her.  You  talk  as  if  you  were 
actually  elated  by  your  discovery  about  her." 

"  I  am  not  elated ;  I  am  seriously  disturbed.  But  it  does 
make  me  angry  to  think  that  she,  being  what  she  is,  has  set 
up  her  opinion  on  matters  of  religion — and  on  other  matters — 
against  me,  and  I  have  allowed  it.  Things  will  be  very 
different  in  the  future." 

The  Vicar  turned  away  and  sat  down  at  his  writing-table. 
"  Your  news  distresses  me,"  he  said.  "  I  must  think  it 
over."  He  turned  round  in  his  seat  towards  her.  "  But  it 
distresses  me  still  more,"  he  added  in  a  firm  tone,  "  to  find 
you  using  it  as  a  handle  for  vindictiveness.  I  will  say 
deliberately  that  I  think  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  taking 
up  the  attitude  you  do.  It  is  not  Christian,  and  it  is  not 
womanly." 

Mrs.  Prentice*s  face  showed  a  dull  flush.  Her  husband's 
words  had  been  spoken  with  such  directness  that  they  could 
not  fail  to  make  an  impression.  She  burst  into  tears.  "  I 
am  sure  I  try  to  do  what  is  right,"  she  said.  "  It  is  very 
hard  to  be  spoken  to  in  that  way.  I  am  only  following  out 
the  rule  of  the  Church  in  thinking  a  thing  that  the  Church 
forbids  is  sinful." 

"  Then  you  should  take  very  good  care  not  to  fall  into  a 
different  kind  of  sin  yourself,"  said  the  Vicar.  "  Undoubt- 
edly you  have  a  vindictive  spirit.  It  is  constantly  showing 
itself,  and  you  make  no  effort  to  subdue  it." 

"I  shall  go  to  my  room,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice.  "You 
have  no  business  to  talk  to  your  wife  in  that  way." 


CHAPTER  X 

A   SERVICE    AND    A    DINNER 

The  s^orm  of  wind  and  rain  that  had  blown  throughout 
the  day  of  Lady  Wrotham's  arrival  at  Exton  died  down 
during  the  night,  and  Sunday  morning  dawned  bright  and 
clear.  Either  for  this  reason,  or  because  of  the  general 
anxiety  to  take  an  early  opportunity  of  seeing  the  great 
lady  in  the  flesh,  Exton  Abbey  church  was  unusually  full 
at  the  morning  service.  Mrs.  RedclifFe  and  Hilda  walked 
down  the  road  from  the  White  House  shortly  before  eleven 
o'clock,  accompanied  by  Browne,  who  caught  them  up  at 
their  gate. 

Browne,  for  a  man  of  nerves  so  comfortably  encased  in 
flesh,  was  in  a  state  of  marked  excitement.  He  walked  faster 
than  was  quite  convenient  to  the  ladies,  and  repeatedly  mopped 
his  forehead  with  a  large  bandana  kerchief. 

"  I  do  hope  she'll  be  satisfied  with  Prentice's  behaviour," 
he  said.  "  We're  all  used  to  his  little  goings  on,  and  don't 
mind  'em.  But  she  takes  such  an  interest  in  Church  matters 
that  she's  bound  to  notice  everything,  and  if  she  isn't  satisfied 
she'll  let  it  be  known." 

"  I  don't  think  she  will  find  much  to  object  to,"  said  Mrs. 
Redcliff^e.     "The  service  is  short,  and  quite  simple." 

"  It  isn't  as  if  we  were  going  to  the  choral  mass,"  said 
Hilda. 

Browne  slowed  down,  standing  almost  still  in  the  road, 
with  a  look  of  consternation  on  his  moon-like  face.  "  By 
Jove!"  he  exclaimed.  "This  is  the  second  Sunday  in  the 
month.  He's  hard  at  work  on  his  choral  mass  at  this  very 
minute.     Then  we're  done." 

131 


122  EXTON  MANOR 

"  The  service  will  be  over  by  eleven  o'clock,"  said  Mrs. 
RedcliiFe.  '*  And,  after  all.  Lady  Wrotham  is  bound  to 
icnow  some  time  that  the  service  is  held.  It  is  just  as  well 
that  she  should  know  at  once.  And  I  hardly  think  that  she 
could  object  to  it.  It  is  only  a  very  bigoted  person  who 
would  do  so." 

"  It  relieves  me  immensely  to  hear  you  say  so,"  said 
Browne.  "I  don*t  know  much  about  these  things;  but,  of 
course,  it's  all  a  good  deal  more  elevated  than  I've  been 
used  to,  and  I'm  rather  at  sea  with  it.  Still,  I'm  not  at  all 
sure  that  she  isn't  a  bigoted  person,  and  I  shan't  be  satisfied 
until  they've  had  it  all  out.  Lor',  how  I  do  hope  we  shall 
have  peace." 

"  I  think  it  will  be  better  fun  if  we  don't  have  peace  all  at 
once,**  said  Hilda.     "  Have  you  seen  her  yet,  Mr,  Browne  ?  " 

"No;  I'm  dining  there  to-night,  and  so  are  the  Prentices. 
It'll  be  a  terrible  thing  if  there's  a  row  over  the  dinner-table.*' 

"There  will  hardly  be  that,"  Mrs.  Redcliffe  said.  "And 
I  think  the  Vicar  has  enough  tact  to  get  his  own  way  over 
matters  that  are  of  importance  to  him  without  giving  offence." 

"  Well,  he  may  have,"  said  Browne.  "  But  what  about 
Mrs.  Prentice  ?  '* 

"  It  will  be  a  terrible  grief  to  Mrs.  Prentice  if  she  has  to  go 
against  dear  Lady  Wrotham,"  said  Hilda. 

"  Mrs.  Prentice  will  not  go  against  her  honest  convictions," 
said  Mrs.  Redcliffe.  "  But  we  need  not  to  go  out  of  our  way 
to  anticipate  disagreement.  Mr.  Browne,  will  you  tell  me 
whether  people  living  in  the  place — people  like  ourselves,  for 
instance — will  Lady  Wrotham  expect  us  to  call  on  her,  or 
will  she  prefer  that  we  should  be  introduced  to  her,  and  take 
the  initiative  herself  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  Mrs.  Redcliffe,"  said  Browne,  "  I  sup- 
pose you'L  call.     But  I'll  find  out  if  you  like." 

**  Yes,  do,  please.     I  have  not  been  on  visiting  terms  with 


A  SERVICE  AND  A  DINNER  123 

great  ladies  before,  in  England,  and  I  should  like  to  do  what 
will  please  her  best." 

"  Mrs.  Prentice  will  know,"  said  Hilda.  "And  I  am  sure 
-he  will  not  be  backward  in  giving  us  fiiil  instructions." 

They  came  to  the  gate  of  the  churchyard.  Xhere  was  a 
collection  of  twenty  or  thirty  people  standing  on  the  path 
between  it  and  the  church  door,  and  from  within  the  church 
came  the  drone  of  the  organ  and  voices  singing.  The  Vicar 
had  instituted  some  time  before  a  choral  communion  service, 
held  once  a  month,  at  an  hour  which  enabled  him  to  dismiss 
his  congregation  in  time  for  the  church  to  be  refilled  by  those 
who  still  preferred  to  attend  the  more  usual  Morning  Prayer 
at  eleven  o'clock.  These  were,  perhaps  naturally,  the  majority 
of  his  parishioners;  but  nobody  had  objected  to  the  innova- 
tion, Exton  being  unusually  free  from  ecclesiastical  contro- 
versy, except  such  as  was  imported  by  Mrs.  Prentice,  and 
there  being  no  obligation  on  anybody  to  chax^  the  ways  to 
which  thev  had  grown  accustomed.  So,  on  the  few  occasions 
on  which  the  earlier  service  had  encroached  on  the  time  sacred 
to  the  more  conservative,  the  later  churchgoers  had  waited 
patiently,  as  on  this  occasion,  until  they  were  free  to  enter. 

It  was  five  minutes  before  eleven,  and  the  organ  and  the 
voices  were  still  to  be  heard  from  within,  when  the  slowly 
augmenting  group  of  eleven  o'clock  churchgoers  was  pleas- 
antly excited  by  the  arrival  at  the  church  gate  of  an  open 
carriage  drawn  by  two  horses,  with  coachman  and  footman 
on  the  box.  From  this  stately  equipage  alighted  a  short,  but 
erect,  old  ladv  in  black,  who  walked  slowly  up  the  church- 
yard path  with  evenr  mark  of  surprise,  and  some  of  dis- 
pleasure, depicted  on  her  face,  as  she  made  her  way  through 
two  lines  of  onlookers.  The  churchyard  was  divided  from  a 
gate  leading  into  the  garden  of  the  Abbey  only  by  the  width 
of  a  road,  but  Lady  Wrotham  had  always  been  accustomed  to 
drive  to  church,  and  had  preferred  to  have  her  carria^  out 


124  EXTON  MANOR 

and  come  round  the  longer  way,  rather  than  to  walk  unat- 
tended the  few  yards  that  divided  her  house  from  the  church. 
She  was  followed  from  the  carriage  by  a  footman  carrying  a 
large  Prayer-book,  who  looked  as  if  he  could  have  wished 
himself  in  some  less  prominent  position. 

She  must  have  thought  that  the  people  through  whom  she 
passed  were  gathered  there  for  the  express  purpose  of  watch- 
ing her  arrival,  which  was  an  attention  she  could  have  dis- 
pensed with,  for  she  inquired  of  Browne  in  an  audible  tone 
why  on  earth  they  were  all  waiting  there  to  stare  at  her. 
Browne  replied  to  her  inquiry  in  an  anxious  whisper.  Her 
expression  changed  when  she  took  in  the  purport  of  his  reply. 
She  gave  one  look  at  the  attendant  throng,  and  another  at  the 
wall  of  the  church,  then,  without  another  word,  continued  her 
progress,  and,  followed  by  her  Prayer-book  and  its  bearer, 
disappeared  into  the  porch,  and  thence  into  the  church  itself. 
It  was  not  until  some  two  minutes  later  that  the  music  ceased, 
and  a  thin  trickle  of  humanity  emerged  to  meet  the  larger 
stream  that  now  found  its  way  in  through  the  open  door. 
The  great  lady's  narrow,  but  determined,  back  could  be  seen 
bolt  upright  in  a  pew  immediately  in  front  of  the  chancel 
rails,  and  the  Vicar,  arrayed  in  eucharistic  vestments,  followed 
by  his  server,  walked  down  the  aisle  with  a  flush  on  his  face. 

Every  one  who  was  alive  to  the  situation  felt  that  battle 
had  been  already  joined. 

Mr.  Prentice  soon  came  back  to  his  reading-desk  at  the  tail 
ot  his  choir,  preceded  by  the  post-office  telegraph  operator 
bearing  a  large  cross,  at  which  Lady  Wrotham  gazed  with 
attentive  curiosity  until  Mr.  Prentice  passed  her,  clad  now  in 
surplice,  hood  and  coloured  stole.  She  remained  seated  until 
the  service  began,  when  she  rose  and  took  part  in  it  with 
responsible  precision. 

The  service  was  quiet  and  short.  The  psalms  were  read, 
and  there  were  two  hymns.     The  Vicar  preached  for  about 


A  SERVICE  AND  A  DINNER  125 

ten  minutes.  His  text  was,  "  And  again  I  say,  rejoice."  He 
said  that  it  was  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  the  Christian 
religion  was  a  religion  of  gloom.  The  Church,  in  her  wis- 
dom, had  decreed  certain  seasons  of  rejoicing,  of  which  this 
was  one.  They  had  recently  gone  through  the  season  of 
penitence,  he  trusted  with  benefit  to  the  souls  of  all  of  them, 
and  now  had  come  this  glad  season  of  rejoicing,  just  as  the 
day  followed  the  night,  and  joy  came  after  sorrow.  But  they 
must  rejoice  worthily,  and  not  unworthily.  Eating  and  drink- 
ing, and  careering  about  in  motor-cars,  were  not  the  kind  of 
rejoicing  that  was  enjoined  on  us,  but  an  increase  in  the 
practice  of  churchgoing  was.  And  what  a  beautiful  thought 
it  was  that  Eastertide,  the  Church's  special  season  of  rejoicing, 
came  at  a  time  when  the  earth  was  awakening  from  her  long 
winter  sleep,  when  the  birds  were  singing,  and  the  buds  open- 
ing. But  he  would  not  dwell  upon  this  thought,  beautiful  as 
it  was,  that  morning.  He  then  touched  upon  the  mutability 
of  human  life.  He  said  that  we  must  not  think,  any  of  us, 
that  we  could  escape  death.  The  rich  man  in  his  castle  and 
the  poor  man  in  his  hovel  were  alike  subject  to  it.  Even 
when  we  thought  ourselves  most  secure  the  end  might  come. 
The  strong  man  who  thought  he  had  many  years  of  life 
remaining  to  him  in  which  to  build  barns  and  lay  field  to  field 
might  meet  his  death  in  the  ashes  of  his  burning  dwelling,  or 
by  a  fall  from  some  lofty  situation.  It  was  a  solemn  thought, 
and  one  that  it  behoved  them  all  to  lay  to  heart,  he  no  less 
than  they.  With  a  renewed  exhortation  to  rejoice,  not  as  the 
beasts  that  perish,  but  as  Christians,  ay,  and  Church  people, 
he  concluded  his  address,  and  came  down  from  the  pulpit  to 
receive  the  alms  of  the  faithful,  which  on  this  occasion  were 
to  be  devoted  to  church  expenses. 

Lady  Wrotham  sat  in  her  pew  until  the  church  was  nearly 
empty,  and  when  the  footman,  who  was  in  attendance  on  the 
back  benches,  judged  that  she  would  have  a  clear  field,  he  went 


126  EXTON  MANOR 

up  the  aisle,  and  she  gave  him  her  Prayer-book,  and  walked 
out. 

In  the  meantime,  Mrs.  RedclifFe  and  Hilda  had  waited  at  the 
church  gate  until  Mrs.  Prentice,  lingering  as  long  as  she  could 
on  the  way,  had  been  forced  to  join  them.  Mrs.  Redcliffe 
came  forward,  holding  out  her  hand,  and  wished  her  good- 
morning.  "  Will  you  and  the  Vicar  come  and  have  supper 
with  us  to-night  ?  "  she  asked.  "  We  have  not  seen  Mr.  Pren- 
tice for  a  long  time." 

Mrs.  Prentice  ignored  the  outstretched  hand.  "  Thank  you, 
we  are  dining  at  the  Abbey,"  she  said  stiffly.  "  Excuse  me,  I 
wish  to  speak  to  Lady  Wrotham,"  and  she  turned  her  back  on 
them. 

Lady  Wrotham  came  down  the  churchyard  path.  Mrs. 
Prentice  went  back  to  meet  her  with  the  sweetest  of  smiles. 
Lady  Wrotham's  face,  sternly  set,  did  not  relax.  "  Good- 
morning,  Mrs.  Prentice,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  see  you  and  your 
husband  this  evening."  She  went  on  through  the  gate,  climbed 
into  her  carriage  and  drove  away. 

"  Pleasant  manners,  upon  my  word  ! "  said  Mrs.  Prentice 
to  herself;  but  presently  reflected  that  Lady  Wrotham  might 
be  one  of  those  people  who  prefer  not  to  indulge  in  mundane 
conversation  immediately  after  a  religious  service,  and  quite 
forgave  her.  Her  mind  had  been  so  exercised  over  the  revela- 
tion that  had  been  made  to  her  on  the  previous  evening  that 
she  had  not  had  leisure  to  consider  the  impression  that  the 
service  might  have  made  on  Lady  Wrotham's  mind,  and  was 
quite  free  from  apprehension  on  that  score. 

But  apprehension  was  soon  brought  to  her.  Her  husband 
caught  her  up  on  the  road  home.  His  face  was  disturbed. 
"  I'm  afraid  we  are  going  to  have  trouble,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Prentice  looked  at  him.  "  Mrs.  Redcliffe  ? "  she 
hazarded. 

"  No,   no,"    he    said    impatiently.     "  That   trouble   exists 


A  SERVICE  AND  A  DINNER  127 

chiefly  in  your  imagination.  Please  do  not  be  always  harping 
on  it.  I  mean  Lady  Wrotham.  Did  you  not  see  how  she 
stalked  up  the  church  as  we  were  just  finishing  the  Gloria  ? 
I  could  not  help  turning  round  to  see  who  was  making  such  a 
disturbance." 

"  She  walked  heavily,  certainly  ;  but  we  were  rather  late, 
and  perhaps  you  could  hardly  expect  her  to  wait  outside  until 
we  had  finished." 

"  She  meant  to  disturb  us,  and  to  show  her  displeasure.  I 
could  see  that.  She  sat  there,  without  kneeling,  watching  me 
critically  until  I  left  the  altar,  and  looked  me  up  and  down  as 
I  passed  her  in  a  way  that  was  meant  to  be  offensive.  She  ob- 
jects to  the  service,  as  I  might  have  known  a  member  of  that 
pestilent  Reformation  League  would  do.  But  I  shall  hold  my 
ground.     I  will  not  be  bullied  by  a  woman." 

Mrs.  Prentice  had  been  reconsidering  Lady  Wrotham's 
manner  to  her  during  this  speech,  and  saw  only  too  good 
reason  to  believe  that  it  had  been  dictated  by  annoyance  at 
what  had  gone  before.  She  did  not  like  the  situation  at  all. 
"  I  hope  you  are  mistaken,"  she  said.  "  At  any  rate,  she  could 
find  nothing  to  object  to  in  Matins,  nor  in  your  preaching. 
It  was  a  beautiful  little  sermon." 

"  I  wrote  it  straight  off.  The  thoughts  seemed  to  flow  easily. 
But  if  she  has  made  up  her  mind  to  object,  she  will  object  to 
anything." 

"  We  must  be  careful  not  to  give  cause  of  ofFence,  if  she 
has  been  used  to  other  forms  of  worship." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  not  giving  cause  of 
offence.  I  shall  not  change  anything  that  I  have  worked  up 
to.  It  is  the  Catholic  Faith  that  will  be  the  cause  of  offence 
to  Lady  Wrotham." 

"I  meant  it  will  be  better  to  try  and  win  her  by  per- 
suasion rather  than " 

"  Yes  i  that  will  be  so  easy,  won't  it  f     A  woman  in  that 


128  EXTON  MANOR 

position  thinks  she  has  only  got  to  express  her  preferences, 
and  her  priest  will  obey  her  as  a  matter  of  course.  Well, 
if  there  is  to  be  unpleasantness,  I  shall  not  shrink  from  it.  I 
have  had  a  comparatively  easy  time  here,  with  very  little  op- 
position. Perhaps  things  have  been  too  easy.  One  must  not 
expect  to  be  able  to  raise  the  tone  of  a  whole  community  with- 
out a  struggle.     I  am  prepared  for  whatever  may  come." 

With  the  anticipation  of  coming  persecution  to  give  him  an 
appetite,  Mr.  Prentice  went  in  to  luncheon,  and  his  wife  fol- 
lowed him,  in  a  thoughtful  mood. 

Mrs.  RedclifFe,  after  Mrs.  Prentice's  refusal  of  her  invita- 
tion, left  the  churchyard  gate  with  heightened  colour.  They 
were  hardly  out  of  hearing,  when  Hilda  broke  forth  — 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  "  that  woman  is  really  intolerable. 
Surely  it  is  impossible  to  pretend  to  keep  up  a  friendship  with 
her  any  longer." 

"  She  was  very  rude,  certainly,"  said  Mrs.  RedclifFe. 
*'  But  her  manners  are  not  of  the  best  at  any  time,  and  prob- 
ably she  had  no  idea  that  she  was  behaving  rudely." 

**The  snob!  Just  because  she  is  the  first  to  make  friends 
with  Lady  Wrotham  !  I  think  she  is  the  most  contemptible 
creature  on  the  face  of  the  earth." 

"  Hush,  Hilda  !  You  must  not  speak  in  that  way.  What 
is  the  good  of  going  to  church  if  you  allow  your  resentment  to 
control  you  the  moment  you  come  out  ?  " 

*'  Yes  ;  what  is  the  good  of  it  ?  Nobody  goes  to  church 
here  more  often  than  Mrs.  Prentice.  And  she  looks  down 
upon  everybody  else  as  being  far  below  her-  in  goodness.  And 
yet  she  hasn't  got  a  thought  that  isn't  mean.  I  detest  the 
woman  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart." 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  did  not  reply.  Her  face  was  thoughtful,  and 
a  little  paler  than  usual. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Prentice  walked  down  to  the  Abbey  that  even- 
ing considerably  exercised  in  their  minds  as  to  the  reception 


A  SERVICE  AND  A  DINNER  129 

that  would  await  them.  The  Vicar's  face  was  stern.  He  had 
carefully  considered  his  position,  and  was  prepared  to  fight  for 
what  he  believed  to  be  the  right.  His  intellect,  bound  by  con- 
vention in  exposition  of  his  beliefs,  served  him  well,  with  a 
clear-headed  outlook,  in  applying  them  ;  and  they  guided  him  in 
a  way  that  many  a  more  golden-tongued  Churchman  might 
have  envied.  He  would  make  friends  with  his  patroness  if  she 
would  let  him,  and  he  would  exercise  the  utmost  patience  in 
controversy  with  her;  but  he  would  not  be  dictated  to  by  her, 
and  if  she  tried  to  bring  pressure  to  bear  on  him  he  would 
withstand  it  steadily. 

Mrs.  Prentice  was  torn  two  ways.  Her  acquaintance  with 
Lady  Wrotham  had  opened  so  auspiciously  that  she  felt  it  would 
be  intolerable  to  be  cast  out  into  the  darkness  of  her  displeasure 
at  this  early  stage.  But  she  had  so  ardently  backed  up  her 
husband  in  his  ambitions,  and  even  egged  him  on  to  further 
altitudes,  that  it  would  be  impossible  now  to  take  the  other 
side — even  if  she  could  have  persuaded  herself  that  it  was  right 
to  do  so.  Without  laying  out  any  definite  course  at  present, 
she  was  prepared  to  keep  the  peace  with  strenuous  amiability. 
After  all,  that  was  the  duty  of  a  Christian  and  a  good  Church- 
woman. 

Apprehension  was  quieted  for  the  moment  by  Lady  Wro- 
tham's  reception  of  her  guests.  Evidently  there  was  to  be  no 
immediate  joining  of  battle.  The  great  lady  was  courteous, 
conciliatory.  Mrs.  Prentice's  fears  left  her  before  they  went 
into  the  dining-room,  and  even  the  Vicar,  fully  alive  to  the 
contest  that  must  come  sooner  or  later,  allowed  his  vigilance 
to  relax  for  the  moment  under  the  influence  of  a  generous 
hospitality. 

They  dined  at  a  round  table  in  a  vaulted  hall,  hung  with 
tapestry,  and  lit  from  old  sconces.  Lady  Wrotham,  as  Browne 
said  afterwards,  did  herself  uncommonly  well,  likewise  her 
guests.     He  busied  himself  gratefully  with  his  dinner,  taking 


130  EXTON  MANOR 

part  in  the  conversation  only  when  he  was  specially  called  upon 
to  do  so. 

"  I  like  a  good  dinner,"  he  said  afterwards,  to  his  friend 
Turner,  *'  and  I  don't  mind  saying  so.  We're  not  badly  off 
in  these  parts,  but  Sunday's  always  been  a  sort  of  blank- 
Old  Sir  Joseph  —well,  he  was  one  of  the  best — but  it  was 
cold  beef  aad  beetroot  with  him,  same  as  with  the  rest  of  us. 
Now  there'll  be  something  to  look  forward  to  when  we  wake 
up  from  our  afternoon  nap." 

The  talk  over  the  dinner-table,  and  afterwards  in  the  library, 
concerned  itself  chiefly  with  the  Exton  parishioners.  Lady 
Wrotham  displayed  a  lively  curiosity  about  the  smallest  details 
in  the  lives  and  histories  of  all  of  them,  and  digested  the  in- 
formation received  in  the  most  eupeptic  manner,  for  she  for- 
got nothing  that  she  was  told,  even  the  names  of  the  least  im- 
portant of  the  tenantry. 

"  I  shall  call  at  all  the  farms  this  week,"  she  said,  "  and 
afterwards  on  the  tradespeople  and  the  cottagers." 

Turner's  name  was  mentioned.  Mrs.  Prentice  shut  her  lips. 
Browne  took  up  the  tale. 

"  You  ought  to  see  the  Fisheries,  Lady  Wrotham,"  he  said. 
"  It's  a  pretty  place,  and  very  interesting." 

"  You  must  ask  Captain  Turner  to  come  and  see  me,"  she 
said.  "  Then  I  hope  he  will  take  me  up  to  see  what  there 
is  to  be  seen.  I  should  like  to  know  everybody  on  the  Manor, 
and  I  hope  they  will  come  and  call  on  me." 

In  the  library,  after  dinner,  Mrs.  Prentice,  alone  for  a  few 
minutes  with  her  hostess,  put  in  a  word  of  warning  about 
Captain  Turner.  "  He  never  comes  to  church,"  she  said, 
"  from  one  year's  end  to  the  other." 

Lady  Wrotham  sounded  a  bugle  echo  of  the  coming 
struggle.  "  There  may  be  reasons  for  that,"  she  said  stiffly, 
and  Mrs.  Prentice  hastened  to  change  the  subject. 

At  ten  o'clock  a  gong  was  sounded.     Lady  Wrotham  rose 


A  SERVICE  AND  A  DINNER  131 

from  her  chair,  and  said  to  the  Vicar,  "  Will  you  Icindly  con- 
duct prayers  for  us  ?  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  will  always  do  so 
when  you  are  here  in  the  evening,"  and,  without  waiting  for 
his  consent,  she  led  the  way  into  the  hall,  where  all  the  indoor 
servants  stood  in  a  line  in  front  of  a  row  of  seats  placed  for 
the  occasion.  On  a  little  table  were  placed  open  two  large 
and  well-worn  leather-covered  books.  Lady  Wrotham  pointed 
to  the  chapter  that  was  to  be  read,  which  was  a  long  one  out 
of  the  Book  of  Leviticus,  dealing  with  the  subject  of  leprosy. 
She  then  took  her  seat,  and  the  rest  of  the  assembly  took 
theirs.  The  Vicar  read  half  of  the  appointed  chapter,  and 
then  closed  the  book.  Then  followed  the  prayer  appointed 
by  the  compiler  for  the  97th  evening.  It  was  couched  in  a 
tone  of  didactic  familiarity,  in  the  course  of  which  thanks 
were  offered  for  the  fact  that,  whilst  many  were  without  the 
necessities  of  life,  the  petitioners  had  enough  and  to  spare. 
The  Vicar  abbreviated  the  latter  part,  and  added  one  of  the 
evening  collects  on  his  own  responsibility.  Then  they  arose 
from  their  knees,  and  the  servants  filed  out  of  the  room,  two 
footmen  removing  the  oak  benches  upon  which  they  had  rested. 

Lady  Wrotham  remained  standing.  It  was  evident  that  the 
evening's  entertainment  had  come  to  an  end.  The  guests 
took  their  departure.  Lady  Wrotham  said,  as  the  Vicar  bade 
her  good-night,  "  Will  you  kindly  come  and  see  me  to-morrow 
morning  at  ten  o'clock,  Mr.  Prentice  ?  "  Her  tone  wiped  out 
the  effect  of  the  evening's  hospitality. 

"  I  would  rather  come  in  the  afternoon,  if  it  is  convenient 
to  you,"  he  replied. 

"  It  would  not  be  very  convenient,"  she  said.  "  I  wish  to 
talk  to  you  upon  matters  of  importance." 

"  Then  I  will  come  at  the  time  you  name,"  said  the  Vicar. 

Browne  accompanied  them  to  the  gate  where  their  respective 
roads  divided.  "  Delightful  old  lady,"  he  said  tentatively.  "  I 
think  we're  lucky,  eb  ?  " 


132  EXTON  MANOR 

The  Vicar  did  not  reply,  but  Mrs.  Prentice  said  that  Lady 
Wrotham  was  a  wonderful  woman  for  her  age. 

"  A  very  restful  evening,"  she  said  when  she  was  alone  with 
her  husband  j  "  and  I  like  finishing  up  with  the  old  family 
prayers." 

"  Well,  I  don't,"  replied  the  Vicar.  "  At  least,  not  such 
prayers  as  those.  It  seems  perfectly  absurd  to  me  to  read 
right  through  the  Bible  without  any  consideration  of  fitness. 
And  as  for  the  prayer  itself,  those  long-winded  discourses  are 
not  prayers  at  all.  I  shall  refuse  to  conduct  worship  on  those 
lines  again.  Lady  Wrotham  has  evidently  made  up  her  mind 
to  have  it  out  with  me  to-morrow  morning,  and  I  do  not  in- 
tend to  leave  all  the  criticizing  to  her." 

"You  will  be  careful  not  to  ofFend  her,  William,"  said 
Mrs.  Prentice. 

"  I  am  bound  to  ofFend  her,"  replied  the  Vicar,  "  and  I  shall 
be  careful  of  nothing  but  to  uphold  what  I  believe  to  be 
right." 


CHAPTER  XI 

A    PRELIMINARY   SKIRMISH 

The  Vicar  called  at  the  Abbey  at  the  time  appointed,  and 
ibund  Lady  Wrotham  quite  ready  for  him.  She  was  brisk  and 
cheerful. 

"  It  is  just  as  well  that  we  should  understand  each  other  at 
an  early  date,  Mr.  Prentice,"  she  said,  when  she  had  shaken 
hands  with  him  and  motioned  him  to  a  seat.  "  I  had  no  idea 
that  things  were  in  such  a  way  as  I  find  them  here — no  idea 
at  all — and  I  cannot  pretend  that  I  am  pleased  at  my  dis- 
covery, or  that  I  shall  be  at  all  satisfied  until  they  are  altered." 

The  Vicar  sat  silent,  and  she  said,  after  a  short  pause, 
"  Surely  the  services  you  now  have  here,  and  your  manner  of 
conducting  them,  have  altered  greatly  since  you  first  came." 

"  Certainly,  I  have  altered  them  in  some  respects,"  he  said. 

"  But  do  you  think  that  quite  fair,  Mr.  Prentice  ?  When 
Lord  Wrotham  presented  you  to  this  living — I  remember  the 
facts  very  well ;  for  though  we  did  not  come  here,  we — at 
least,  I — have  always  taken  a  great  interest  in  this  and  the 
other  churches  of  which  my  husband  was  patron.  I  remem- 
ber very  well  that  you  were  appointed  on  the  recommendation 
of  Sir  George  Cargill — it  was  while  Lord  Wrotham  and  I  were 
in  Australia — and  he  most  decidedly  would  never  have  recom- 
mended us  to  appoint  any  one  but  an  Evangelical." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Lady  Wrotham ;  I  never  pro- 
fessed at  any  time  to  hold  the  views  that  are  labelled — 
wrongly,  I  think — Evangelical." 

"  Well,  I  can  only  say  that  Sir  George  wrote  to  Lord 
Wrotham  that  you  did." 

"  Then  he  did  so  on  his  own  responsibility  j  and  you  would 

133 


134  EXTON  MANOR 

hardly  accuse  me,  I  think,  of  hiding  my  opinions ;  or,  worse 
than  that,  of  misstating  them,  for  the  sake  of  getting  a  liv- 
ing." 

Lady  Wrotham  was  hardly  ready  at  this  stage  of  the  argu- 
ment to  say  that  she  did  so  accuse  him,  although  she  had  it 
firmly  fixed  in  her  mind  that  there  must  have  been  some  sort 
of  deception  practiced,  or  he  would  not  be  where  he  was. 
She  therefore  exonerated  him,  not  altogether  ungrudgingly. 

"  I  must  make  that  point  quite  clear,  in  justice  to  myself," 
said  the  Vicar.  "  I  was  senior  curate  to  t^he  present  Bishop 
of  Llandudno  at  Holy  Trinity,  Manchestei  Square,  and " 

"  But  the  Bishop  of  Llandudno  is  a  decided  Low  Church- 
man." 

"  I  should  hardly  have  described  him  so.  He  is  a  broad- 
minded  man,  and  did  not  demand  that  all  of  his  large  staff 
should  hold  the  same  views  as  himself.  It  was  a  parish  where 
the  parochial  work  was  the  chief  thing.  I  was  there  for 
twenty  years,  and  during  that  time  he  had  men  working  with 
him  of  all  shades  of  opinion.  I  never  made  any  concealment 
of  my  own  views,  and  I  was  very  happy  working  there,  as  I 
say,  for  over  twenty  years.     I  never  held  any  other  curacy." 

"  But  Sir  George  Cargill " 

"  You  mean  that  I  concealed  my  views  from  him  ?  I  did 
no  such  thing.  He  was  churchwarden  at  Holy  Trinity  dur- 
ing the  whole  of  my  curacy  there.  Why  should  you  suppose 
I  would  have  concealed  from  him  what  I  did  not  from  my 
own  vicar  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  accuse  you,  Mr.  Prentice.  Pray  do  not  put  me 
in  such  a  position." 

"  But  I  think  it  does  amount  to  an  accusation — of  what 
T,  at  any  rate,  should  call  dishonesty.  Sir  George  Cargill 
knew  that  I  worked  hard  in  the  parish,  and  no  doubt  the  vicai 
told  him  his  opinion  of  my  work.  When  he  suggested  this 
incumbency  to  me,  nothing  was  said  about  my  views — not  one 


A  PRELIMINARY  SKIRMISH  135 

word — and  no  stipulation  was  made  that  I  should  preach  any 
particular  view.  If  it  had  been  so,  I  should  certainly  not  have 
accepted  the  living.     I  would  not  be  so  bound." 

"  Well,  I  cannot  help  thinking  it  was  a  little  unfortunate. 
Sir  George  ought  not  to  have  taken  so  much  for  granted. 
But,  at  any  rate,  I  should  have  thought  you  would  have  felt 
bound — you  will  excuse  my  speaking  quite  plainly,  Mr.  Pren- 
tice— not  to  go  beyond  what  was  practiced  at  Holy  Trinity. 
You  say  that  the  Bishop  of  Llandudno  is  not  a  Low  Church- 
man. I  should  have  thought  he  was  ;  but  I  will  not  argue 
with  you  on  that  point.  At  any  rate  the  services  at  Holy 
Trinity,  which  I  have  often  attended,  were  quite  innocuous. 
You  would  hardly  have  done  there  what  I  saw  yesterday." 

"  I  don't  deny  that  I  have  raised  the  services  here.  I  con- 
sider that  results  have  more  than  justified  my  doing  so.  And 
I  can  accept  no  blame  on  that  score." 

"  Well,  I  don't  like  it,  Mr.  Prentice,  and  I  tell  you  so 
plainly." 

"  Then  I  am  very  sorry.  Lady  Wrotham  ;  but  you  will  for- 
give my  speaking  as  plainly  as  yourself,  and  saying  that  I  can- 
not recognize  the  right  of  the  patron  of  a  living  to  dictate  to 
his  incumbent  in  these  matters.  There  is  no  such  right  in  ex- 
istence. And  I  must  add,  if  you  will  forgive  me,  that  you  are 
not  even  the  patron  of  this  living." 

This  was  plain  speaking  indeed,  and  a  woman  of  Lady 
Wrotham's  character  could  hardly  be  expected  to  take  it  with- 
out offence.  "  I  did  not  expect  that  you  would  address  me  in 
that  fashion,  Mr.  Prentice,"  she  said  stiffly.  "  I  asked  you  to 
come  here  to  talk  over  matters  quietly,  and  you  tell  me  in  so 
many  words  that  I  am  to  have  no  opinions  of  my  own  in  Ex- 
ton,  and  am  of  no  importance  in  the  place  in  comparison  with 
yourself." 

The  Vicar  had  also  been  prepared,  while  taking  a  firm 
stand,  to  discuss  matters   quietly  ;  but  he  had  been  taken  out 


136  EXTON  MANOR 

of  himself  by  the  implication  of  bad  faith,  and  was  prepared 
to  speak  as  strongly  as  might  be  necessary  in  his  own  defence. 

*'  My  words  could  hardly  be  said  to  have  that  meaning,"  he 
replied.  "  They  were  not  meant  to  have.  But  it  is  quite  cer- 
tain that  in  spiritual  matters  the  patron's  responsibility  ceases 
when  he  has  appointed  an  incumbent." 

"  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  agree  with  you.  I  look  upon  the 
position  of  a  landowner  as  one  of  the  greatest  responsibility, 
both  spiritually  and  morally.  I  have  no  intention  of  shirking 
such  share  in  it  as  I  possess  in  this  place.  It  is  a  great  disap- 
pointment to  me  to  Jind  that  you  are  not  prepared  to  work  with 
me  in  spreading  the  gospel." 

"  Oh,  Lady  Wrotham,  how  can  you  say  such  a  thing  to 
one  whose  life  is  devoted  to  that  object  alone  ?  " 

"  I  consider  that  the  Romanizing  of  the  Church  is  a 
distinct  hindrance  to  the  spread  of  the  true  gospel.  I  was 
beyond  measure  shocked  to  find  the  service  which  I  inter- 
rupted yesterday  going  on  in  any  church  with  which  I  have 
to  do." 

"I  think  you  are  saying  a  very  strange  thing.  The  service 
which  I  hold  once  a  month  at  a  quarter  to  ten  is  the  Com- 
munion Service,  which  any  Churchman  or  Churchwoman, 
whether  they  call  themselves  high  or  low,  must  recognize  as 
the  highest  form  of  worship." 

"  Not  when  it  is  made  as  much  like  the  Roman  Mass  as  it 
can  be  made — with  candles,  and  vestments,  and  I  know  not 
what.  Vestments,  at  any  rate,  Mr.  Prentice,  you  have  no 
right  to  use.  There  I  am  not  to  be  moved.  They  must  be 
given  up  at  once.     I  will  not  have  them." 

The  Vicar's  face  grew  a  dull  red,  and  his  eyes  glittered  dan- 
gerously. But  he  controlled  his  anger,  rising  from  his  seat. 
"  I  have  nothing  further  to  say,  Lady  Wrotham,"  he  said. 
"I  think  I  had  better  wish  you  good-morning." 

"  Oh,    please    sit    down,"    she    said,    rather    impatiently. 


A  PRELIMINARY  SKIRMISH  137 

"  These  things  must  be  talked  over.  You  cannot  think  that 
we  can  both  go  on  living  here,  in  the  peculiar  positions  we  oc- 
cupy, with  nothing  settled  between  us." 

"  I  am  willing  to  talk  them  over,"  he  replied,  but  without  re- 
suming his  seat ;  "  but  not  on  the  terms  you  propose.  When 
you  tell  me  you  will  not  have  this  or  that,  you  are  taking  up  a 
position  which  I  will  not  give  way  to  for  a  moment.  No  one 
has  a  right  to  give  me  such  orders  except  my  bishop,  and  he 
only  if  the  law  of  the  Church  is  behind  him." 

"  It  is  the  bishop's  authority  I  rely  on,  and  I  shall,  if  neces- 
sary, invoke  it.     The  law  has  decided  against  vestments." 

"  I  think  you  are  mrstaken  ;  but  I  cannot  argue  the  question 
with  you.     I  am  willing  to  do  so  with  the  bishop." 

"  Is  it  the  place  of  a  parish  clergyman  to  argue  with  the 
bishop  ?  " 

"  I  expressed  myself  unfortunately.  He  would  hardly  give 
an  order  such  as  you  anticipate  without  hearing  me." 

"  Mr.  Prentice,  I  do  trust  you  will  listen  to  reason.  This 
conversation  has  taken  a  turn  I  by  no  means  intended." 

"  You  will  forgive  me  for  saying.  Lady  Wrotham,  that  you 
probably  intended  me  to  listen  subserviently  to  whatever  you 
chose  to  say,  and  immediately  obey  your  orders.  I  have  no 
wish  to  be  anything  but  respectful  to  you,  but  I  hold  very 
high  ideals  of  my  office  and  of  my  responsibility,  and  I  must 
press  the  point  that  a  parish  priest  is  not  the  paid  servant 
of  his — er — patron,  and  owes  him— or  her — no  sort  of  obedi- 
ence." 

"  I  do  not  ask  for  obedience.  I  ask  for  plain  common-sense. 
The  Church  of  England  is  Protestant,  and  it  is  the  duty  of  all 
its  members,  as  well  as  its  ministers,  to  resist  any  approach  to 
Roman  Catholic  doctrine  or  practices." 

"  You  open  a  wide  question.  You  must  know  perfectly 
well  that  what  you  say  is  not  acknowledged  by  many — I  would 
say  most — of  the  most  learned  and  self-sacrificing  Churchmen 


138  EXTON  MANOR 

I  do  not  acknowledge  it  for  one,  and  we  have  no  comniou 
ground  to  stand  on  in  that  statement." 

"  What !     We  must  not  resist  Rome  ?  " 

"  Certainly  we  must.  But  not  by  giving  up  what  our 
Church  accepts  in  common  with  Rome.  We  are  as  Catholic 
as  she  is.  We  are  not  Protestant  in  the  same  way  as  the  sects 
are  Protestant." 

"  I  say  we  are." 

"  Then  we  must  differ  in  that,  as,  I  fear,  in  other 
things." 

Lady  Wrotham  was  baffled,  as  people  inclined  to  hector 
are  apt  to  be  baffled  by  outspoken  opposition.  She  considered 
for  a  moment.  "  We  will  leave  that  point  for  a  time,"  she 
said,  in  a  quieter  tone.  "  I  should  like  you  to  tell  me  frankly 
what  else  goes  on  here  that  I  should  be  likely  to  object  to. 
You  may  as  well,  you  know,  because  I  shall  have  no  difficulty 
in  finding  it  out  for  myself." 

"You  need  not  have  said  that.  Lady  Wrotham.  I  have 
given  you  no  reason  to  think  that  I  should  be  ashamed  of 
your  finding  out  anything  that  goes  on  here,  as  you  express  it." 

"  T  don't  know  that  you  have.  There  is  no  need  to  become 
huffy,  Mr.  Prentice." 

He  gave  a  short  laugh.  "  You  saw  for  yourself  what  the 
Morning  Service  was  like,"  he  said.  "  It  would  be  difficult 
for  the  most  Protestant  to  find  cause  of  complaint  in  that. 
And  the  Evening  Service  is  the  same." 

"  There  was  that  great  cross." 

"  Yes,  there  was  the  cross,  the  sign  of  our  redemption.  I 
had  forgotten  that  you  might  object  to  that.  I  wear  coloured 
stoles  to  mark  the  different  se?3ons  of  the  Church's  year.  I 
celebrate  Saints'  days." 

"  Do  yo      'jclude  the  Virgin  Mary  in  those  celebrations  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  tnat  is  Catholic,  and  not  Protestant." 


A  PRELIMINARY  SKIRMISH  139 

"  Thank  you,  Lady  Wrotham.  Then  the  English  Church 
is  Catholic,  and  not  Protestant,  in  that  respect,  at  least." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  The  Church  has  appointed  a  day  for  celebrating  the  An- 
nunciation of  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary." 

"  Oh,  the  Annunciation  !     Well,  what  else  ?  " 

"  I  celebrate  the  Holy  Communion  at  eight  o'clock  every 
Sunday  morning,  and  at  ten  o'clock  on  Thursdays." 

"  Do  you  ever  have  it  in  the  evening  ?  " 

"  No,  certainly  not." 

"  But  it  was  held  first  of  all  in  the  evening." 

"  It  has  not  been  so  held  for  nearly  two  thousand  years." 

*'  Ah,  the  more  reason  for  getting  back  to  it  now.  Is  that 
all  you  have  to  tell  me  ?  " 

"  I  see  nothing  to  be  gained  by  telling  you  of  anything  more. 
It  is  very  painful  to  me  to  do  so,  and  to  hear  all  that  I  hold  dear, 
scoffed  at.  You  take  an  active  part  in  Church  controversies, 
and  you  know  pretty  well  what  men  who  hold  my  views  do." 

"  Yes,  I  do  know,  Mr.  Prentice,  and  also  what  they  do  not 
do.  Do  they  hold  meetings  for  Bible-reading  and  prayer  ? 
Do  they  seek  to  bring  about  true  conversions  of  soul  ?  Do 
they  preach  the  doctrine  that  no  priest  can  come  between  the 
soul  and  its  Maker  r  Do  they  encourage  their  flock  to  keep 
the  sabbath  ?     I  very  much  fear  not." 

"  Lady  Wrotham,  would  you  not  be  happier  among  the 
Methodists  than  In  the  Church  of  England?  " 

If  he  had  asked  her  whether  she  would  not  be  happier  in 
corps  de  ballet^  she  could  hardly  have  been  more  startled. 

"  Mr.  Prentice  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  you  lay  stress  on  all  the  things  that 
the  Nonconformists  value  most,  and  ignore  the  distinctive  doc 
trines   of  the   Church.     You  would   find   yourself  in   perfect 
agreement  with   any  devout  Wesleyan.     You  will   find  verj. 
few  Churchmen  who  agree  with  vou." 


140  EXTON  MANOR 

*'  I  beg  leave  to  tell  you  that  there  are  very  many.  But  it  is 
useless  to  carry  on  the  discussion  further  on  these  lines.  I  am 
deeply  grieved  that  it  is  so.  But  on  one  point,  Mr.  Prentice, 
I  have  made  up  my  mind.  You  must  discard  your  Popish 
vestments." 

"  So  you  said  before.  Lady  Wrotham,  and  I  answered  that 
I  do  not  recognize  the  authority  of  your  *•  must.'  " 

*'  Then,  deeply  as  it  will  pain  me,  I  must  report  the  matter 
to  our  good  bishop." 

"  I  shall  be  ready  to  abide  by  his  decision.  Until  he  gives 
it  I  hope  you  will  see  the  advisability  of  leaving  the  matter 
alone.  I  think  you  are  entering  very  lightly  on  a  struggle 
that  must  create  unhappiness,  and  destroy  the  peace  of  a 
contented,  and,  on  the  whole,  God-fearing  community.  It 
is  a  great  responsibility." 

"  There  would  be  no  necessity  for  it  if  you  were  deter- 
mined to  uphold  the  Protestant  character  of  the  Church  of 
England." 

"  And  so  ignore  what  the  Prayer-book  teaches.  I  cannot 
do  that.  I  hope  that  you  will  wait,  at  any  rate,  before  taking 
any  steps,  until  you  have  gone  about  a  little  amongst  the 
parishioners,  as  I  understand  it  is  your  intention  to  do,  and 
see  if  they  have  not  been  helped  and  uplifted  by  the  agencies 
you  so  despise." 

"  I  shall  certainly  make  it  my  business  to  inquire  how  far 
their  religious  tendencies  have  been  warped.  Mr.  Prentice, 
you  have  caused  me  real  sorrow.  I  thought  I  should  come 
down  to  this  quiet  place,  and  spend  my  days  here  in  prepa- 
ration for  the  end  which  you  warned  us  very  properly  yester- 
day is  not  far  from  any  of  us.  I  hoped  that  I  should  be 
helped  and  encouraged  in  that,  as  well  as  in  trying  to  do  what 
I  could  to  teach  those  whom  God  has  put  under  my  charge  to 
live  a  higher  life,  by  the  minister  my  dear  husband  instituted 
to  this  living  to  do  that  very  thing.     I  am  an  old  woman,  and 


A  PRELIMINARY  SKIRMISH  141 

have  borne  my  part  in  the  battle,  and  I  looked  for  peace.  But 
if  I  am  not  to  have  it,  I  will  gird  on  my  armour  again  to  work 
for  the  truth.  I  have  still  got  the  strength  for  it,  and  I  shall 
not  shrink  from  my  duty." 

But  for  the  last  sentences,  the  Vicar  would  have  been 
affected  by  this  speech.  As  it  was,  it  gave  him  the  word. 
"  And  I  shall  not  shrink  from  mine.  Lady  Wrotham,"  he 
said.  "  I  want  peace,  too,  but  I  too  have  a  duty  to  perform. 
Let  us,  at  least,  recognize  that  each  of  us  is  sincere  in  our 
beliefs." 

"  It  is  very  difficult  to  believe  it  of  one  who  is  bent  on 
Romanizing  the  Church." 

"  I  am  not  doing  that ;  and  it  ought  not  to  be  difficult 
to  believe  that  those  who  hold  different  religious  views  to 
our  own  are  sincere.  It  is  a  serious  thing  to  doubt  it  to  their 
faces." 

"Well,  perhaps  it  is,  Mr.  Prentice;  I  am  not  so  angry 
with  you  as  I  thought  I  should  be — as  I  ought  to  be.  Mis- 
taken as  you  are,  I  believe  that  you  do  believe  what  you 
preach.  At  the  same  time,  your  views  are  so  entirely  mis- 
guided and  dangerous,  that,  if  persisted  in,  they  cannot  but 
do  harm  to  your  own  soul,  as  well  as  the  souls  of  others." 

The  Vicar  rose  again.  "  I  will  not  prolong  the  discussion 
further,"  he  said.  "  There  is  one  thing  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  say  to  you  as  I  came  here.  Lady  Wrotham.  If  you  should 
ask  me  again  to  conduct  prayers  in  your  household,  I  must 
ask  you  to  excuse  me  from  using  the  book  you  put  before 
me  last  night.     It  is " 

"  You  need  not  take  the  trouble  to  criticize  it,  Mr.  Pren- 
tice," interrupted  Lady  Wrotham.  "  I  shall  not  ask  you 
to  conduct  prayers  in  my  household  again," 


CHAPTER  XII 

POURPARLERS 

Now  see  of  what  paramount  importance  it  is,  where  a 
difference  of  opinion  divides  two  downright  souls,  that  they 
should  not  remain  apart,  and  suffer  the  poison  of  remembered 
words  to  work  in  the  blood,  unchecked  by  the  mutual  con- 
viction of  honesty  of  purpose,  which  is  encouraged  amongst 
controversilalists  only  by  propinquity. 

There  was  once  a  man  with  a  yacht — he  was  a  newspaper 
proprietor — who  invited  a  mosquito-tongued  archdeacon  to 
accompany  him  on  a  cruise.  As  the  archdeacon  climbed  up 
the  ship's  side,  he  saw  looking  down  upon  him,  the  features, 
petrified  with  astonishment,  of  a  spectacled,  sparse-bearded 
Baptist,  whom  he  had  called  Simon  Magus  in  cold  print,  the 
Baptist  retorting  with  Antichrist.  He  was  for  returning  to 
the  shore  at  once,  and  the  Baptist,  after  the  first  horrified 
glimpse,  had  already  rushed  below  to  repack  his  hair-brush 
and  his  book  of  press-cuttings,  which  were  all  he  had  had 
time  to  take  out  of  his  bag.  The  premature  departure  of 
both  was  prevented  by  some  means  or  other,  and  the  yacht 
steamed  off  to  the  Mediterranean. 

Now  each  of  these  men  hated  each  other  with  a  con- 
suming hatred,  in  the  full  belief  that  his  opponent  was  in- 
spired by  the  devil.  But  at  Gibraltar  they  went  ashore  to- 
gether, and  the  archdeacon  sent  a  postcard  to  the  Baptist's 
son,  who  was  five  years  old  that  very  day,  and  the  Baptist 
sent  a  postcard  to  the  archdeacon's  daughter,  who  was  exactly 
a  year  younger.  They  still  fought  nightly  over  their  tobacco, 
and  their  host  kept  the  ring,  but  they  fought  as  men  with 
a  common  aim,  at  issue  over  the  means  to  attain  it,  and  their 
fury  was  dissolved  in  kindness. 

143 


POURPARLERS  143 

The  moral  is  that  no  man  is  a  mere  walking  bundle  of 
opinions,  mistaken  or  otherwise.  Every  man  has  a  soul,  and 
something  lovely  to  inspire  it  j  but  how  can  you  find  out 
what  that  something  is  if  you  only  know  him  in  print,  and 
make  of  his  soul  whatever  disagreeable  thing  fits  in  most 
neatly  with  your  argument  ? 

Lady  Wrotham,  confronted  in  the  flesh  with  a  man  who 
held  all  the  opinions  she  most  abominated,  had  not  been  so 
angry  as  she  thought  she  would  have  been  in  such  circum- 
stances. She  had  seen  through  to  honest  convictions,  per- 
haps rather  against  her  own  will,  and  had  found  something 
to  respect  in  her  opponent.  But  when  she  was  alone  once 
more,  the  effect  of  these  unexpected  revelations  began  to 
wear  thin ;  she  forgot  them.  Mr.  Prentice,  dressed  in 
priestly  vestments,  burning  candles,  muttering  incantations, 
bowing  and  crossing  himself,  his  longing  eye  cast  Rome- 
wards,  stood  in  her  mind  for  the  incarnation  of  her  detes- 
tations, stripped  of  all  righteousness. 

Then  her  indignation  began  to  work  upon  the  way  in 
which  he  had  flouted  her  authority.  It  was  disgraceful, 
unheard  of.  Her  cheekbones  flamed.  She  had  fought  many 
such  men,  and  overcome  some  of  them.  But  here  was  a 
man  who  was  setting  up  a  grove,  an  altar  of  Baal,  so  she 
expressed  herself  with  picturesque  metaphor,  in  those  very 
sacred  fields  of  which  she  was  the  responsible  ruler.  If  she 
could  not  have  peace  and  her  own  way  here,  what  was  the 
world  coming  to  ? 

Oh,  religious  England,  led  by  the  nose  to  kiss  that  baleful 
Roman  toe,  twitching  arrogantly  across  the  water,  you  must 
be  saved  at  any  cost.  Canterbury  will  hardly  hold  you  back. 
Canterbury  has  gone  half-way  with  you,  protesting  sleepily 
that  your  pilgrimage  is  elsewhither.  Geneva,  that  saved  you 
once,  is  impotent.  From  whence  is  the  prophet,  the  leader, 
to  come  ?     Well,  if  no  Luther,  no  Calvin,  is  at  hand  to  turn 


144  EXTON  MANOR 

you,  there  are  still  mothers  in  Israel,  high-born,  influential, 
some  of  them,  "  doing  themselves  well,"  with  tongues  in  their 
heads,  and  pens  and  treasure  at  their  disposal,  who  will  make 
it  their  business  to  see  that  you  do  not  make  your  journey 
unwarned  of  its  monstrous  goal.  Feudal,  some  of  them,  who 
will  undertake  that  those  dependent  on  their  purses  and  their 
pleasure,  do  not  join  you,  whoever  else  may  do  so.  And  here 
is  one  of  the  feudalists,  determined  to  give  no  quarter.  Away 
with  human  weakness  !  In  such  a  fight  as  this,  husband  may 
find  himself  opposed  to  wife,  and  son  to  mother.  If  duty 
demands  that  even  households  shall  be  broken  up  in  the  cause 
of  right,  and  domestic  ties  sternly  severed,  how  much  more 
does  it  behove  one  set  on  a  pinnacle  of  responsibility  to  use 
all  arts  to  crush  a  renegade,  who  rears  a  hostile  banner  under 
the  very  shadow  of  the  castle  ?  The  rebel  must  not  be  allowed 
to  creep  in  under  a  flag  of  truce,  and  paralyze  the  arm  that 
should  strike  without  mercy.  He  must  be  annihilated.  He 
has  drawn  his  sword  against  the  truth,  and  at  the  same  time 
defied  the  authority  of  his  over-lord.  It  is  not  necessary  to 
inquire  too  closely  for  which  fault  he  is  to  be  most  severely 
punished,  since  annihilation  will  account  for  both  together. 

Lady  Wrotham  determined  to  invoke  the  fulminations  of 
the  Bishop  of  Archester  without  delay.  It  was,  perhaps, 
doubtful  if  he  could  be  induced  to  fulminate  as  heartily  as  she 
could  wish.  She  had,  in  truth,  no  very  great  opinion  of  him. 
There  were  bishops  whom  the  Women's  Reformation  League, 
boasting  cautiously  over  their  tea-cups,  reckoned  to  have  in 
their  pockets.  This  was  not  one  of  them.  He  was  an  aris- 
tocrat himself,  and  not  amenable  to  Mayfair  blandishments ; 
was,  indeed,  rather  impatient  of  interference  from  religious, 
petticoated  Mayfair,  and  had  said  so  with  a  plainness  that 
could  only  have  been  put  up  with  from  his  late  father's  son. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  he  was  one  of  the  cautious  prelates 
who  hate  extremes,  whose  names  are  alike  anathematized  at 


POURPARLERS  145 

patronal  festival  luncheons,  and  greeted  with  head-shakings  in 
Protestant  committee  rooms.  He  might  be  induced  to  put 
his  foot  down  in  an  extreme  case,  if  there  was  evidence  of 
general  parochial  antagonism.  In  other  circumstances,  such 
as  a  difference  of  opinion  between  a  great  lady  and  a  hard- 
working incumbent,  he  would  almost  certainly  chain  back  his 
thunders.  Lady  Wrotham  recognized  this,  with  an  added 
sense  of  injury,  and  saw  that  her  first  step  must  be  to  collect 
evidence  of  dissatisfaction. 

She  lost  no  time.  That  very  afternoon  she  drove  out  and 
paid  visits  to  such  of  the  farm-houses  as  lay  within  a  two 
hours'  circuit.  She  went  armed  with  a  bundle  of  literature 
from  the  Women's  Reformation  League,  with  which  she  had 
fortunately  provided  herself.  Her  success  was  less  than  she 
had  hoped  for.  She  found  the  Exton  farmers'  wives  more 
independent  than  those  she  had  been  accustomed  to  direct 
spiritually  in  her  former  home.  She  forgave  them  this,  on 
considering  that  Exton  had  for  so  many  years  been  without 
adequate  social  leading.  Sir  Joseph  Chapman,  a  very  good 
man  in  his  way,  having  amounted  to  nothing  at  all,  viewed 
from  the  feudal  standpoint.  And  she  found  very  little  dis- 
satisfaction. "  No,  my  lady,*'  said  old  Mrs.  Witherspoon, 
voicing  the  attitude  of  most  of  her  sisters,  "  we've  no  com- 
plaint to  make  of  our  good  Vicar.  He  comes  to  see  us 
regular,  and  don't  worrit  us  with  views.  Me  and  my  good 
man,  we  don't  hold  wi'  these  new-fangled  ways ;  but  there, 
it's  live  and  let  live  all  through  the  chapter,  isn't  it  ?  And 
's  long  as  he  doesn't  alter  the  services  we  do  go  to,  he's  wel- 
come, for  us,  to  hold  the  others  for  them  as  likes  'em." 

"  But  surely,"  said  Lady  Wrotham,  "  you  have  read  in  the 
papers  of  the  rapid  spread  of  false  doctrine  in  the  Church  of 
England,  and  of  the  danger  it  is  becoming  ?  Surely,  it  is  the 
duty  of  all  of  us,  who  believe  in  the  old  religion,  to  do  all  we 
can  to  stop  this  terrible  national  apostasy." 


146  EXTON  MANOR 

Mrs.  Witherspoon  could  not  sec  that  it  was  her  duty.  Her 
duty  was  to  make  good  butter,  and  induce  her  hens  to  lay, 
and  not  interfere  in  matters  which  were  the  affairs  of  wiser 
heads  than  that  of  an  old-fashioned  farmer's  wife,  or  a  farmer 
either,  who  knew  their  place,  and  didn't  set  up  to  be  gentle- 
folk like  others  she  could  name,  who  were,  after  all,  no  better 
than  she  was,  although  they  made  a  deal  more  show. 

Lady  Wrotham,  scenting  a  village  rivalry,  in  which,  at  any 
other  time,  she  would  willingly  have  taken  a  hand  in  defence 
of  the  unpretentious,  turned  the  conversation,  havi;ig  no  leisure 
at  present  but  for  her  rigorous  campaign,  and  presently  took 
her  leave,  not  too  well  satisfied  either  with  Mrs.  Witherspoon 
or  herself.  Did  it  quite  consort  with  her  dignity  to  be  going 
round  to  the  wives  of  the  tenantry  stirring  up  religious  strife  ? 
If  she  had  found  acute  dissatisfaction,  no  murmur  would  have 
been  heard  from  within.  She  would  have  taken  her  proper 
place  as  leader  of  the  rising,  and  would  have  known  very  well 
how  to  act  in  the  capacity.  But  it  galled  her  to  feel  that  she 
might  be  presenting  herself  to  these  shrewd-headed,  pleasant- 
spoken  women  as  a  rebellious  maker  of  strife.  Somehow, 
she  had  not  been  quite  successful  in  imposing  her  religious 
views  on  Mrs.  Witherspoon,  and  others  whom  she  had  visited, 
as  of  unquestionable  authority.  They  seemed  to  hold  views 
of  their  own,  without  even  a  concomitant  desire  to  adapt 
them,  as  far  as  possible,  to  those  she  herself  expressed.  She 
made  one  conquest,  but  it  was  not  one  that  she  greatly  valued. 
Mrs.  Capper,  a  youngish  woman  with  airs,  obviously  the  lady 
to  whom  Mrs.  Witherspoon  had  alluded,  saw  which  way  the 
wind  blew,  and  instantly  trimmed  her  sails  accordingly. 

"  I  own,"  she  said,  "  that  I  have  been  rather  led  away  by 
what  has  been  going  on,  but  I  can't  say  that  my  conscience 
is  quite  easy  about  it.  I  don't  really  like  it,  and  never  have. 
But  the  truth  is,  that  Mrs.  Prentice  is  so  very  anxious  to 
get  everybody  to  follow  her,  and  it  has  been  difficult  to  hold  out.*' 


POURPARLERS  Hj* 

"  Mrs.  Prentice  !  "  echoed  Lady  Wrotham.  "  But  what 
has  it  got  to  do  with  Mrs.  Prentice  ? " 

Mrs.  Capper  simpered,  with  intention.  "  I  think  that  when 
you  have  been  in  Exton  a  little  longer,  my  lady,"  she  said, 
"  you  will  find  that  it  has  a  good  deal  to  do  with  Mrs.  Prentice. 
Of  course,  /  am  not  nearly  good  enough  for  her,  and  I  don't 
complain  about  that,  as  long  as  she  simply  lets  me  alone.  I 
have  no  wish  at  all  to  put  myself  forward ;  I  couldn't  do  it  j 
it  is  not  in  my  nature  to." 

"No,  of  course  not,"  interrupted  Lady  Wrotham.  "We 
all  have  our  places  in  the  world,  and  it  is  our  duty  to  keep 
them." 

"  Quite  so,  my  lady,"  replied  Mrs.  Capper,  without  con- 
viction. "  But  if  I  am  not  to  be  recognized  as  fit  to  appear 
in  Mrs.  Prentice's  drawing-room — which,  no  doubt,  I  am  not 
— I  do  consider  that  I  have  a  right  to  object  to  her  coming 
here  and  laying  down  the  law  to  me  as  if  she  was  a  bishop  at 
the  least.  I  never  have  liked  it,  nor  what  we  have  been  asked 
to  give  way  to,  and  I  am  very  glad  indeed  that  your  ladyship 
does  not  approve  of  it  either.  I  hope  now  that  things  may 
be  different,  as  of  course  they  will  be,  now  we  have  got  some- 
body to  look  up  to." 

"  Well,  of  course,  I  intend  that  there  shall  be  no  paltering 
with  Rome,"  replied  Lady  Wrotham.  "  Protestant  the 
Church  of  England  is,  and  Protestant  it  shall  remain  if  I  have 
anything  to  do  with  it.  But,  at  the  same  time,  you  must  un- 
derstand, Mrs.  Capper,  that  I  have  no  wish  to  underrate,  or  to 
encourage  any  one  in  the  parish  to  underrate,  the  authority  of 
the  Vicar." 

"  Oh,  no,  my  lady,"  said  Mrs.  Capper.  "  And  I'm  sure  the 
Vicar,  if  he  is  High  Church,  is  beloved  by  all.  Still,  you 
must  have  things  your  own  way.     I  quite  see  that." 

"  It  is  not  so  much  my  way,"  Lady  Wrotham  corrected 
her,  "  as  the  way  of  the  law.     You  must  not  understand  me 


148  EXTON  MANOR 

to  mean  more  by  what  I  have  said  to  you  than  that  I  think 
possibly  Mr.  Prentice  may  have,  inadvertently,  made  a  few 
mistakes,  as  so  many  clergymen,  unfortunately,  do  nowa- 
days." 

"  Oh,  yes,  and  I'm  sure  he  will  alter  things  directly  he 
knows  your  ladyship  objects — in  spite  of  Mrs.  Prentice. 
And  I'm  sure  too  that  all  of — of  the  more  educated  people  in 
Exton  will  be  only  too  glad  to  do  anything  that  you  think 
advisable.  I  know  I  can  speak  for  myself,  and  my  husband 
too." 

"  Well,"  said  Lady  Wrotham,  rising,  "  you  will  perhaps  be 
good  enough  to  read  these  few  papers  that  I  will  leave  with 
you.  They  will  show  you,  more  plainly  than  I  can  do,  what 
a  real  danger  the  Church  is  running,  under  the  guidance  of 
misled  people,  of  becoming  Romanized.  We  must  all  of  us 
do  what  we  can,  in  our  different  spheres,  to  stop  it,  and  I  see 
no  reason  why  Exton  should  not  take  its  part  in  the  struggle 
that  must  be  carried  on  from  day  to  day.  It  can  only  do  so 
by  putting  the  true  religion  in  place  of  the  false ;  and  I  hope 
to  have  some  meetings  at  the  Abbey,  to  which  all  will  be  in- 
vited, which  may  help  us  in  our  work." 

"  Oh,  that  will  indeed  be  a  blessing,  my  lady,"  said  Mrs. 
Capper.  "And  I'm  sure  if  I  can  do  anything  to  help,  such 
as  handing  round  hymn-books  or  providing  my  share  of  a  tea, 
as  we  used  to  do  in  the  last  parish  where  we  lived,  I  shall  only 
be  too  pleased." 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  Lady  Wrotham.  "  My  servants 
will  hand  round  the  hymn-books,  and  I  shall  provide  any  re- 
freshment that  will  be  necessary  myself.  But  I  shall  expect 
you  to  be  present,  and  your  husband  too,  and  when  the  time 
comes  I  hope  you  will  do  what  you  can  to  make  it  known 
that  every  one  in  the  parish  will  be  welcome.  Now  I  will 
wish  you  good-afternoon." 

Lady  Wrotham  was  rather  disturbed  by  what  she  had  been 


POURPARLERS  149 

told  of  Mrs.  Prentice,  although  she  was  not  inclined  to  put 
too  much  credence  in  Mrs.  Capper's  vapourings.  When  she 
reached  home  she  sent  a  note  to  the  Vicar's  wife  summoning 
her  to  her  presence,  and  Mrs.  Prentice  came  flying  on  the 
wings  of  a  westerly  gale,  glad  enough  to  have  an  opportunity 
of  putting  matters  straight,  if  by  any  art  of  hers  she  could 
do  so. 

There  was  no  yielding  in  Lady  Wrotham's  attitude.  She 
dispensed  her  hospitality  with  a  certain  grimness,  and  re- 
sponded without  excessive  amiability  to  Mrs.  Prentice's  efforts 
towards  intimate  chat. 

"  You  will  probably  have  heard  from  your  husband,"  she 
said,  coming  quickly  to  the  point,  "  that  we  did  not  unfor- 
tunately find  ourselves  in  agreement  this  morning  over  some 
most  important  points.  I  thought  I  should  like  to  hear  from 
yourself  how  far  you  go  with  him  in  his  ritual  extravagances, 
so  that  I  may  know  who  are  my  friends  and  who  are  my 
enemies  in  the  battle  that  lies  before  us." 

This  was  direct  enough,  far  more  direct  than  suited  Mrs. 
Prentice,  anxious  by  vague  handling  of  debatable  subjects  to 
stave  off  warfare.  "  I — er — as  far  as  ritual  goes,"  she  said, 
"  I  do  not  consider  it  of  great  importance." 

"  I  think  it  is  of  very  great  importance,"  replied  Lady 
Wrotham  severely.  "  It  is  by  these  foolish  and  unmanly 
dressings  up,  and  fiddling  with  Roman  playthings,  that  weak 
people  are  led  to  give  up  their  sturdy  Protestantism.  If  it 
was  not  intended  to  lead  in  that  direction  it  would  not  be  used. 
I  object  to  it  most  strongly  for  that  reason,  as  well  as  because 
I  think  it  contemptible  and  silly." 

"  I  like  a  plain  service  myself,'*  said  Mrs.  Prentice,  already 
at  her  wits*  end  to  know  how  she  could  preserve  the  peace 
without  belying  her  convictions.  "  I  think,  perhaps,  I  prefer 
it.     But ** 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  that,  at  any  rate,"  said  Lady  Wrotham. 


150  EXTON  MANOR 

"  You  will  be  able,  I  hope,  to  persuade  your  husband  to  mend 
his  ways  in  that  respect.  For  I  tell  you,  very  plainly,  Mrs. 
Prentice,  that  I  am  thoroughly  shocked  with  the  state  of 
things  I  find  here,  and  am  determined  to  use  every  means  in 
my  power  to  stop  it.  I  should  like  to  have  you  on  my  side, 
if  you  are  open  to  conviction;  but  if  not " 

The  pause  was  significant.  How  much,  too,  would  Mrs. 
Prentice  have  liked  to  be  on  the  same  side  as  this  formidable 
great  lady  ;  but  was  it  possible  ?     She  made  another  effort. 

"It  would  grieve  me  dreadfully  if  you  saw  fit  to  withdraw 
your  help  from  us  in  the  spiritual  work  of  the  parish,"  she 
said  piteously.  "  I  had  formed  such  high  hopes  of  an  in- 
crease of  godliness  all  round  from  what  you  told  me  of  your 
interest  in  religious  matters.  It  would  be  dreadful  if  the  peo- 
ple were  to  find  those  in  a  special  position  of  responsioility 
towards  them  disagreeing  amongst  themselves." 

"  I  think  it  would,"  replied  Lady  Wrotham.  "  And  I  sin- 
cerely hope  that  nothing  of  the  sort  may  be  necessary.  But, 
taking  the  rather  prominent  position  that  I  have  in  these  ques- 
tions, even  if  I  did  not  regard  them  with  the  utmost  serious- 
ness, as  I  do,  you  can  see  that  it  is  not  possible  for  me  to  give 
way  in  the  slightest  degree.  In  any  church  or  parish  with 
which  I  have  to  do  there  must  be  a  direct  and  unflinching 
Protestantism.  The  slightest  paltering  with  Rome  is  not  to 
be  thought  of." 

"  I  can  speak  quite  confidently  on  that  point,  at  any  rate," 
said  Mrs.  Prentice.  "  Both  my  husband  and  I  detest  Rome 
and  Roman  doctrine  as  much  as  anybody." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,  though  I  cannot  say  that  I  see 
many  signs  of  it  as  far  as  he  is  concerned." 

"  Oh,  but.  Lady  Wrotham,  indeed  you  are  doing  him  an 
injustice.  He  speaks  and  preaches  most  strongly  against 
Roman  error." 

"Every  High  Churchman  does  that,  until  he  goes  over. 


POURPARLERS  151 

You  do  not  deny  that  your  husband  is  a  pronounced  High 
Churchman,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Er — no.  Of  course  he  is  what  is  called  a  High  Church- 
man, although  I  do  not  like  the  expression." 

"  Very  possibly  not.  Well,  Mrs.  Prentice,  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  after  our  conversation  of  this  morning,  I  have  very  little 
hope  of  being  able  to  influence  your  husband,  and  if  he  forces 
me  to  it  I  shall  have  no  hesitation  at  all  in  fighting  him  openly. 
But,  of  course,  if  you  are  able  to  influence  him  for  his  good, 
and  have  the  desire  to  do  so,  which  I  sincerely  hope  you  have, 
the  great  unpleasantness  of  a  complaint  to  the  bishop,  and  the 
consequent  scandal  in  the  parish,  may  be  obviated.  Now,  is 
it  your  desire  to  assist  me  in  my  endeavour  to  put  things  on  a 
more  satisfactory  basis  ?  " 

The  nauseous  medicine  was  held  to  her  lips.  There  was 
one  quiver  of  disgust  and  then  she  took  a  large  gulp.  "  I  will 
do  what  I  can,"  she  said.     "  We  must  save  a  breach." 

Lady  Wrotham  inexorably  tendered  the  dregs  of  the  cup. 

"  There  must  be  no  paltering,"  she  said.  "  I  do  not  wish 
for  agreement  on  the  surface  and  disloyalty  underneath.  There 
must  be  active  Protestantism." 

It  was  too  bitter.  "  But,  Lady  Wrotham,"  protested  the 
unhappy  woman,  "  you  cannot  expect  my  husband  to  give  up 
everything  he  conscientiously  believes  in  and  turn  completely 
over  to  the  other  side." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  no  hope  of  any  such  thing.  The 
question  now  is  whether  ^o«  are  on  my  side." 

"  In  all  your  efforts  towards  goodness — oh,  yes.  Indeed  I 
am.     I  shall  assist  you  most  willingly." 

Had  she  swallowed  the  whole  dose  or  poured  it  surrep- 
titiously away  ?  Lady  Wrotham  believed  that  it  had  taken 
its  proper  channel  and  administered  the  subsequent  sweet- 
meat. 

**  That  is  very  good  hearing,"  she  said.     "  I  can  scarcely 


752  EXTON  MANOR 

say  how  much  I  shall  welcome  your  help.  I  shall  be  glad  to 
consult  with  you  frequently.  I  have  some  important  letters  to 
write  for  the  post  this  evening,  but  perhaps  you  will  be  kind 
enough  to  lunch  with  me  to-morrow,  and  then  we  can  go  into 
matters  together  for  an  hour  or  so  and  drive  out  afterwards." 
•  Mrs.  Prentice  took  her  leave,  cheered  somewhat  by  the 
proffer  of  intimacy,  but  not  otherwise  in  the  most  equable 
state  of  mind.  She  found  her  husband  engaged  in  mowing  the 
tennis  lawn,  going  at  his  task  with  such  vigour  that  beads  of 
perspiration  stood  on  his  brow,  although  the  air  of  the  Spring 
evening  was  not  exactly  sultry. 

"  Do  put  your  coat  on,  William,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice  as 
she  joined  him.     "You  will  catch  your  death  of  cold." 

The  Vicar  stopped  and  wiped  his  brow.  "  I  will  put  it  on 
when  I  have  finished,"  he  said.  "  I  am  rather  worried  by  the 
old  lady's  interference,  and  hard  work  helps  me  to  throw  off  my 
annoyance.     Well,  have  you  been  hauled  over  the  coals  too  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it  when  you  have  put  on  your 
coat,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice.  "  You  will  certainly  catch  cold  if 
you  stand  there  talking  in  that  state." 

The  Vicar  with  a  sigh  resumed  his  black  jacket.  "  Well  ?  " 
he  said. 

*'  I  have  had  a  talk  with  Lady  Wrotham,"  said  Mrs.  Pren- 
tice.    "  William,  I  am  sure  she  means  well." 

"  I  dare  say  she  does,"  replied  the  Vicar.  "  Most  busy- 
bodies  do  mean  well.  The  question  is,  have  you  succeeded 
in  conveying  to  her  that  it  will  be  better  for  her  to  keep  from 
interfering  with  me  in  my  work  ?  " 

Mrs.  Prentice  thought  that  on  the  whole  she  had  succeeded 
in  conveying  that  impression.  At  least  she  said  so.  "  But 
I  think,  just  for  the  sake  of  peace,"  she  added,  "  that  it  will 
be  wiser,  for  a  time  at  any  rate,  to  make  the  services  as  plain 
as  possible,  so  as  not  to  give  her  a  handle  for  further  interfer* 
ence*     She  talks  about  complaining  to  the  bishop." 


POURPARLERS  153 

"  She  may  complain  as  much  as  she  likes.  The  bishop  is 
a  trimmer,  and  has  given  some  very  unfair  decisions.  But 
there  is  nothing  that  goes  on  here  that  he  can  object  to.  We 
are  not  extremists." 

"  But,  William,  think  of  the  scandal  it  will  create  if  she 
really  makes  up  her  mind  to  have  her  own  way — or  to  take 
steps  to  have  it.  Whether  she  succeeds  or  not  the  state  of 
strife  would  do  so  much  harm." 

*'  I  am  afraid  it  would,  but  I  am  not  going  to  alter  things 
for  the  sake  of  preventing  it.  And  how  can  you  ask  me  to 
do  so,  Agatha  ?  You  have  been  continually  urging  me  to  go 
faster.  Have  you  forgotten  how  you  pressed  me  to  celebrate 
a  choral  mass  every  Sunday  at  eleven  o'clock  so  that  the 
people  should  be  compelled  to  come  to  it  j  and  when  I  said 
that  they  were  not  ready  for  it  you  called  me,  if  you  remem- 
ber, a  renegade  priest  ?  " 

"You  should  not  recall  everything  I  say  in  the  heat  of 
argument." 

"  Quite  so  ;  but  what  would  you  feel  if  I  had  done  what  you 
wished,  and  Lady  Wrotham  had  come  in  on  Sunday  morning 
at  the  beginning  of  the  service  instead  of  the  end  ?  And  what 
would  she  have  done,  I  wonder  ?  " 

The  picture  was  too  painful.  Mrs.  Prentice  shuddered. 
"  I  acknowledge  that  you  were  wiser  than  I,"  she  said.  "  But 
if  you  used  expediency  there,  as  you  did,  why  not  carry  it  a 
little  further  ?  You  need  not  give  up  any  of  your  convic- 
tions." 

"  I  do  not  intend  to,  nor  anything  that  I  have  set  on  foot 
after  mature  consideration.  What  do  you  propose  that  I  shall 
alter  ?     What  are  her  ladyship's  minimum  demands  ?  " 

"  She  did  not  make  any  definite  demands.  But  it  is  the 
ritual  she  objects  to.  Of  course,  you  know,  William,  ritual  is 
not  necessary  as  long  as  the  faith  is  taught." 

"  Then  you  propose  that  I  shall  give  up  the  small  amouoT 


154  EXTON  MANOR 

of  ritual  we  have  here,  and  go  on  teaching  the  faith  ?  And 
you  think  that  Lady  Wrotham  will  be  content  with  that  ?  I 
don't.  If  I  know  anything  about  the  school  of  which  she  is 
one  of  the  chief  ornaments,  she  will  object  just  as  strongly  to 
the  doctrines  of  baptismal  regeneration  and  sacramental  grace 
as  to  eucharistic  vestments.  No.  Peace  does  not  lie  in  that 
direction." 

"  Well,  I  do  think  for  the  present  it  will  be  well  to  give  in 
to  her  a  little.  I  am  sure  she  is  a  religious  woman,  and  if  she 
is  not  upset  now  she  will  gradually  come  round  to  see  that  you 
have  done  good  here,  and  she  will  withdraw  her  opposition." 

"  Oh,  Agatha,  Agatha  !     You  can't  do  it,  you  know." 

"  Can't  do  what,  pray  ?  " 

"Serve  God  and  mammon.  It  would  be  very  pleasant,  no 
doubt,  to  be  the  bosom  friend  of  Lady  Wrotham.  But  you 
can't  be  that  and  keep  true  to  your  convictions  as  well.  You 
had  better  make  your  choice  now,  for  you  will  have  to  make 
it  sooner  or  later." 

Mrs.  Prentice  drew  herself  up.  "  I  think  you  are  making  a 
great  mistake  in  identifying  Lady  Wrotham  with  mammon," 
she  said.  "  That  is  not  the  way  to  win  mistaken  souls  to  your 
side.  And  in  some  ways  I  am  not  certain  that  she  ;V  mistaken. 
I  am  sure,  at  any  rate,  that  in  her  heart  of  hearts  she  desires 
the  right.  And  as  long  as  I  can  I  will  remain  her  friend  and 
endeavour  to  guide  her." 

The  Vicar  laughed,  and  seized  the  handle  of  his  mowing- 
machine.  "You  will  do  that,"  he  said,  "  when  this  machine 
guides  me.     I  shall  just  have  time  to  finish  this  before  dinner." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

AN  UNEXPECTED  VISIT 

There  was  a  surprise  in  store  for  Mrs.  Prentice  the  next 
morning,  for  as  she  walked  down  the  village  on  her  way  to  keep 
her  appointment  at  the  Abbey,  she  was  overtaken  by  Lady 
Wrotham's  carriage,  and  in  it  was  seated,  very  much  at  his 
ease,  the  young  man  whom  she  had  made  such  earnest  efforts 
to  entertain  a  fortnight  or  so  before.  Lord  Wrotham  favoured 
her  with  an  inquiring  stare,  and  drove  on  ahead  of  her. 

"Dear  me,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice  to  herself,  "I  did  not  know 
he  was  expected." 

No  one  knew  when  to  expect  Lord  Wrotham  at  any  time. 
He  was  a  restless  being,  and  would  take  the  longest  journey  at 
the  shortest  notice  whenever  the  spirit  moved  him.  His 
mother  had  received  a  telegram  early  in  the  morning  to  say  that 
he  was  about  to  pay  her  a  visit,  and  was  to  be  met  at  such  and 
such  a  train.  Why  he  had  come,  and  the  length  of  time  he 
intended  to  stay,  she  knew  no  more  than  Mrs.  Prentice. 
That  lady,  fired  by  curiosity,  hurried  her  footsteps,  and  ar- 
rived at  the  Abbey  in  time  to  share  in  the  disclosure  of  his 
lordship's  purpose. 

"  Ah,  how  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Prentice,"  said  the  young  man 
cordially,  when  he  was  introduced  to  her.  "  Very  sorry  I 
couldn't  accept  your  kind  invitation  the  other  day,  but  Browne 
and  I  were  driven  off  our  legs.  So  much  to  see  to,  you  know. 
I  was  just  telling  my  mother  that  I've  come  down  to  have  a 
look  at  the  Fisheries.  We  hadn't  time  to  go  up  there  the  other 
day." 

Lady  Wrotham  did  not  appear  to  be  entirely  satisfied  with 
this  explanation,  or  indeed  overjoyed  at  the  visit.  She  sat 
stiffly  in    her    chair,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  pleasant,  alert 

155 


156  EXTON  MANOR 

face  of  her  son,  with  no  very  marked  expression  of  maternal 
pride  or  pleasure.  But  Mrs.  Prentice  could  find  no  fault  with 
the  young  man's  attitude  to  his  mother,  and  wondered  what 
there  was  behind  the  scenes  to  have  created  the  antagonism 
which  Lady  Wrotham  had  practically  admitted  to  her  as  exist- 
ing between  herself  and  her  son. 

"  I'm  thinking  of  starting  a  fish  hatchery  up  at  Shelbraith, 
you  know,  mother,"  he  said.  "  It's  always  been  an  idea  of 
mine." 

''  This  is  the  first  I  have  heard  of  it,"  replied  Lady  Wro- 
tham. "  I  think  you  should  go  very  carefully  into  the  matter 
before  you  start  such  an  undertaking.  I  know  that  your  father 
spent  a  great  deal  of  money  rather  unsatisfactorily  here,  and 
was  glad  enough  when  this  Captain — what  is  his  name  ? — 
Captain  Turner  rented  them  from  him." 

"  Oh,  I've  gone  into  it  like  anything.  It'll  pay  hand  over 
fist,  and  won't  cost  much  to  start." 

"  That  was  not  your  father's  experience." 

"  Father  never  had  any  experience  at  all.  Old  Tetheradge, 
who  was  here  before  Browne,  persuaded  him  into  it  and  made 
a  mess  of  it,  as  he  did  of  everything  else.  Turner  is  making 
it  pay,  so  Browne  says.  I'm  going  to  get  Browne  to  take  me 
up  after  lunch.  Well,  mother,  how  do  you  find  Exton  agree 
with  you  ?     Feeling  pretty  buckish,  eh  ?  " 

"I  wish  you  would  not  use  those  expressions  to  me, 
George,"  replied  Lady  Wrotham.  "  I  am  not  one  of  your 
companions  of  the  race-course.  I  have  no  doubt  I  shall  be 
very  well  here  when  I  have  settled  down.  At  present  I  am 
not  quite  myself.  Mrs.  Prentice,  I  am  afraid  I  must  ask  you 
to  excuse  my  driving  with  you  this  afternoon.  I  had  a  sleep- 
less night ;  I  must  rest." 

It  was  plain  that  she  was  unwell,  and  that  only  her  strength 
of  will  enabled  her  to  get  through  the  meal  which  followed, 
and  take  her  part  in  the  conversation.     Mrs.  Prentice  was  fuU 


AN  UNEXPECTED  VISIT  157 

of  sympathy,  but  was  not  altogether  sorry  to  be  relieved  of  the 
ordeal  of  a  further  cross-examination,  which,  for  all  her 
anxiety  to  please,  might  have  ended  in  an  open  breach.  Lord 
Wrotham,  beyond  a  perfunctory  expression  of  sorrow,  did  not 
display  much  solicitude  for  his  mother's  indisposition,  but 
chatted  gaily  to  both  the  ladies. 

"  Have  you  got  to  know  the  inhabitants  yet,  mother  ?  "  he 
asked,  when  they  had  been  some  time  at  table.  ''  Seen  Tur- 
ner yet  ?  " 

"No.  I  shall  be  glad,  George,  if  you  will  ask  Mr.  Browne 
to  bring  Captain  Turner  to  drink  tea  with  me.  The  ladies 
living  in  the  place  will,  of  course,  call  upon  me.  But  a 
bachelor  may,  perhaps,  require  an  invitation." 

"  I'll  tell  him,  mother.     Seen  Mrs.  RedclifFe  yet  ?  " 

"  Not  yet,"  replied  Lady  Wrotham,  and  Mrs.  Prentice  set 
her  lips  together. 

"Very  nice  lady,"  pursued  Wrotham;  "you're  sure  to  like 
her,  and  her  daughter's  a  very  charming  girl.  You're  lucky 
to  have  such  people  in  the  place,  Mrs.  Prentice." 

Mrs.  Prentice  did  not  look  as  if  she  thought  herself  lucky, 
but  she  felt  bound  to  make  some  reply  to  the  observation. 
"  The  White  House  has  been  made  very  attractive  since  it 
was  enlarged,"  she  said. 

Wrotham  threw  a  quizzical  look  at  her.  "  Charming  little 
cottage,"  he  said.  "  Then  you  don't  care  about  the  people 
who  live  in  it,  eh,  Mrs.  Prentice  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  say  so.  Lord  Wrotham,"  she  replied. 

"  No,  but  it's  quite  plain,"  he  persisted.  "  Little  quarrel, 
eh  ?  The  ladies,  bless  'em,  they're  never  quite  happy  unless 
there's  a  trifle  of  an  upset  going  on,  are  they  ?  But  they  are 
just  as  good  friends  to  each  other  in  spite  of  it.  We  men 
can't  equal  them  there.  If  we  quarrel  we  quarrel,  and  there's 
an  end  of  it." 

Lady  Wrotham  interposed.     "  I  think  you  are  letting  youf 


158  EXTON  MANOR 

tongue  run  away  with  you,  George,"  she  said,  as  if  she  were 
correcting  a  small,  troublesome  boy.  "  Mrs.  Prentice  has 
given  you  no  reason  to  assume  that  she  has  quarrelled  with 
anybody." 

*'I  am  not  of  a  quarrelsome  mood,  Lord  Wrotham,"  said 
Mrs.  Prentice  sweetly. 

"  And  I'm  sure  Mrs.  RedclifFe  isn't,"  said  Wrotham. 
"  Don't  know  when  I've  met  a  lady  I  liked  better.  1  expect 
you  will  get  on  with  her  like  anything,  mother." 

"You  will  perhaps  leave  me  to  make  my  own  friends  in 
my  own  way,  George,"  said  Lady  Wrotham. 

"  Why,  certainly,  mother.  Do  you  know  if  Mrs.  RedclifFe 
has  anything  to  do  with  Francis  Redcliffe  who  lives  at 
Riverslea  in  Worcestershire  ?     He  was  at  Eton  with  me." 

"  I  believe  her  husband  was  Sir  Francis's  uncle,  but,  as 
I  tell  you,  I  do  not  know  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  Mrs.  Prentice  will 
tell  you  anything  you  wish  to  know  about  her,  though  I 
cannot  see  why  you  should  betray  such  a  lively  interest  in 
a  lady  you  have  only  met  once,  and  are  not  likely  to  meet 
again." 

"  Oh,  I  like  to  know  all  about  everybody,  especially  people 
living  on  one's  own  place." 

Mrs.  Prentice,  believing  that  she  now  had  permission  to 
imply  a  secret  reason  for  her  attitude,  said,  "  You  will  find, 
I  think,  Lord  Wrotham,  that  Mrs.  RedclifFe  has  reasons  for 
not  putting  forward  any  claim  on  her  relations.  She  is 
living  at  Exton  as  quietly  as  possible — one  might  almost  say 
hidden." 

But  Lady  Wrotham  stopped  her  at  once.  "  I  thought  it 
was  understood,"  she  said  severely,  "  that  we  were  not  to 
discuss  what  we  know  of  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  I  certainly  thought 
it  was  understood,  Mrs.  Prentice." 

Mrs.  Prentice  quailed  under  the  stony  glance  of  displeasure 
and  was  beginning  to  quaver  apologies,  but  Lady  Wrotham 


AN  UNEXPECTED  VISIT  159 

proceeded :  "  Since  so  much  has  been  said,  I  may  as  well 
tell  you,  George,  that  Mrs.  RedclifFe's  husband  married  his 
deceased  wife's  sister.  Apparently  the  fact  was  not  known 
here,  but  I  was  not  aware  of  that  when  I  mentioned  it  to 
Mrs.  Prentice  the  other  day.  She  comes  from  Australia,  and 
I  heard  of  the  marriage  when  your  father  and  I  were  out 
there.  I  should  not  have  divulged  her  secret  if  I  had  known 
it  was  a  secret." 

"  Of  course  not,  mother.  You  needn't  be  afraid  of  me. 
I  won't  say  a  word  to  anybody.  And  anyhow,  if  it  was  in 
Australia,  it  was  all  right.  So  it  will  be  here  before  long. 
Well,  I  must  be  off.  I'll  come  in  again  to  say  good-bye. 
I've  told  'em  to  be  ready  to  take  me  back  to  the  station  about 
five  o'clock." 

He  was  out  of  the  room  and  the  house  within  two  minutes, 
somewhat  to  the  astonishment  of  Mrs.  Prentice,  who  had  not 
quite  finished  her  glass  of  port  wine.  Lady  Wrotham  ex- 
pressed no  astonishment.  "  I  must  see  this  Miss  RedcIifFe," 
she  remarked  oracularly.  "  There  is  one  thing ;  it  will  not 
last  very  long." 

Lord  Wrotham  walked  quickly  out  of  the  gate  house  and 
up  the  road.  When  he  reached  the  gate  of  the  White  House 
he  turned  in  and  went  up  the  drive,  and,  ringing  at  the  door 
and  inquiring  for  Mrs.  Redcliffe,  presently  found  himself  in 
that  lady's  parlour,  where  she  and  Hilda  were  sitting. 

''  I  thought  I  would  just  look  in  on  my  way  up  to  Browne," 
he  said.     ''  And  how  are  you,  Mrs.  RedcIifFe  ?  " 

Mrs.  Redcliffe  said  that  she  was  well,  and  Hilda,  next 
interrogated,  gave  a  satisfactory  account  of  her  health. 

"  Well,  I've  just  been  lunching  with  my  mother,"  he  said, 
sitting  himself  in  an  easy-chair  in  the  window.  "  By  the 
bye,  I  must  keep  a  lookout  for  old  Browne,  in  case  he  goes 
down  before  I  get  to  him.  He  doesn't  know  I'm  here.  I've 
come  to  have  a  look  at  the  Fisheries.     I  say,  Mrs.  Redcliffe, 


i6o  EXTON  MANOR 

can't  you  and  Miss  Redcliffe  come  up  with  us  ?  You  know 
Turner,  of  course.  There'll  be  room  for  four  of  us  in 
Browne's  cart." 

"I  think  not,  thank  you,  Lord  Wrotham,"  said  Mrs. 
RedclifFe.  "  Hilda  and  I  were  thinking  of  driving  over  to 
Oakhurst  this  afternoon." 

"  Can't  you  do  that  another  afternoon  ?  I've  just  snatched 
to-day  to  come  down.  Let's  make  a  little  expedition  of  it. 
It's  up  in  the  woods,  isn't  it  ?  Do  let's  all  go  together.  I'm 
a  bit  shy,  you  know.     I  want  backing  up." 

He  laughed  agreeably,  and  Mrs.  Redcliffe  and  Hilda 
laughed  too.  "We  could  go  to  Oakhurst  to-morrow, 
mother,"  Hilda  said. 

Just  at  that  moment  Wrotham  espied  Browne's  burly  figure 
walking  down  the  road  past  the  garden,  and  dashed  out  to 
intercept  him.  Hilda  laughed  again.  "  Do  let  us  go, 
mother,"  she  said.  "  He  is  such  fun — not  in  the  least  like 
anybody  else.     And  I'm  sure  he  likes  us  both." 

"We  will  see  what  Mr.  Browne  says,"  answered  her 
mother,  which  was  as  good  as  a  surrender. 

So  presently  they  were  walking  up  through  the  woods  to 
Browne's  house,  Wrotham  on  ahead  with  Hilda,  and  the 
older  pair  following  more  sedately. 

"  Now  that's  what  I  call  a  nice-looking  pair,"  said  round, 
forty-year-old  Browne,  without  prejudice,  and  indeed  the 
slim,  youthful-looking  couple,  with  their  springy,  active  walk, 
might  have  evoked  some  such  expression  of  opinion  from  any 
one  who  saw  them  together. 

Lord  Wrotham  possessed  in  an  eminent  degree  that 
faculty  not  rare  amongst  the  lively-natured,  self-assured,  of 
ingratiating  himself  at  a  pace  a  good  deal  quicker  than  the 
ordinary  speed-limit  with  the  more  comely  of  the  opposite 
sex.  He  could  do  more  than  ingratiate  himself.  He  could, 
by  delicately  shaded  but  always  advancing  degrees,  and  with- 


AN  UNEXPECTED  VISIT  i6i 

out  laying  himself  open  to  rebuff  even  from  the  most  timor- 
ous, drive  a  colloquy  on  to  that  plane  where  admiration  may 
be  openly  tendered  without  offence,  and  at  least  a  reciprocal 
interest  implied,  if  not  expressed.  Many  of  the  numerous 
fair  ones  whom  he  honoured  by  his  attentions  would  have 
resented  with  offended  sincerity  the  charge  of  flirtation,  so 
dexterously  were  they  led  into  the  winding  maze  ;  but  the 
incense  burnt  at  the  shrine  of  beauty  by  this  agreeable  young 
man  demanded  a  return  of  favour,  and  its  light  fumes  were 
so  searching  that  they  usually  attained  their  reward.  Hilda 
RedclifFe  was  the  least  consciously  coquettish  of  her  sex, 
but  she  was  so  gay  and  bright,  and  so  pretty,  that  she  in- 
vited a  more  than  usually  ardent  attack  from  a  lover  of  those 
special  qualities,  and  replied  to  it  by  a  still  more  sparkling 
display  of  them.  The  walk  through  the  woods  from  the 
White  House  to  Upper  Heath  gate  was  a  matter  of  ten 
minutes  at  the  most,  but  by  the  time  they  had  reached 
Browne's  house  she  had  been  told  that  if  Lord  Wrotham  had 
made  her  acquaintance  before  the  arrangement  was  entered 
into  by  which  his  mother  occupied  Exton  Abbey  for  her  life- 
time, he  would  not  have  consented  to  it,  but  taken  up  resi- 
dence there  himself.  And  she  had  parried  the  statement 
with  a  laughing  reply,  instead  of  showing  surprise  at  its 
boldness.  To  this  point  had  the  expert  in  intimacy  pushed 
his  way. 

They  drove  up  to  the  Fisheries  through  the  woods  in 
Browne's  dog-cart,  Mrs.  RedclifFe  and  Browne  in  front,  Hilda 
and  Wrotham  clinging  on  behind  as  the  wheels  bumped 
slowly  over  the  soft,  uneven  rides.  Wrotham,  with  his  elbow 
over  the  back  of  the  seat,  engaged  the  company  in  general 
conversation.  "You'll  go  and  call  on  my  mother  as  soon  as 
possible,  now,  I  hope,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  "  She  is 
ready  and  anxious  to  make  your  acquaintance." 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  said  nothing,  and  he  went  on. 


i62  EXTON  MANOR 

"  I  know  Frankie  RedclifFe.  He  was  at  school  with  me — 
and  at  Cambridge  too.  But  he  seems  to  have  buried  himself 
lately.  Model  country  landlord,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
Dear  old  fellow,  though.     I  should  like  to  see  him  again." 

"  I  do  not  know  Sir  Francis,"  Mrs.  RedclifFe  made  haste  to 
reply.  "  My  husband  was  in  Australia  for  the  last  years  of 
his  life,  and  I  came  to  England  for  the  first  time  after  his 
death." 

''  Capital  place  Australia.  I  was  out  there  for  a  year  as 
a  small  boy.  You  weren't  near  Western  Australia,  were 
you  ? " 

**  No.     I  am  a  Queenslander." 

"  Then  you  never  met  my  father  and  mother  when  they 
were  playing  at  royalty  out  there.  No,  h?r  ladyship  said  you 
hadn't,  although  she  knew  your  name.  Well,  you'll  have 
something  to  talk  about  together,  at  any  rate.  I  say,  Browne, 
Mrs.  Prentice  doesn't  seem  to  be  a  very  amiable  lady.  Got 
her  knife  into  everybody,  apparently." 

"  Oh,  she's  all  right,"  said  Browne,  "  if  you  take  her  in  her 
own  way." 

"  She  isn't  all  right,"  said  Hilda.  "  She  is  an  interfering 
mischief-maker,  and  as  for  her  manners !  " 

Mrs.  Redcliffe  did  not  come  to  the  rescue  of  criticized  hu- 
manity, as  was  her  wont.  She  sat  silent,  looking  forward 
along  the  purple  vista  of  tree  trunks  and  interlacing  branches, 
as  though  she  did  not  even  hear  what  was  being  said. 

But  Wrotham  turned  to  Hilda  with  a  quizzical  smile.  "  I 
say  ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  You're  very  severe.  I'm  afraid  the 
lady  isn't  a  great  friend  of  yours." 

"  No,  she  isn't,"  Hilda  replied.  "Although,  sometimes,  if 
there  is  anything  to  be  gained  by  it,  she  pretends  to  be." 

"Well,  I  don't  blame  you  for  keeping  her  at  arm's  length. 
I've  got  an  eye  for  character,  and  I  think  she's  a  bit  of  a  pussy 
cat.     But   she   seems   to  be   very   thick   with  my  mother  at 


AN  UNEXPECTED  VISIT  163 

present.  There's  nothing  they  don't  tell  each  other.  Prob- 
ably it  won't  last  long.     She  doesn't  know  her  ladyship  yet." 

Browne  cleared  his  throat  with  determination.  ''  This  is 
the  road  up  from  the  village,"  he  said,  as  they  turned  into  a 
broad,  gravelled  track.  "  We  shall  get  to  the  rhododendron 
ring  soon.  It's  worth  looking  at."  Mrs.  Prentice's  name 
was  then  dropped  out  of  the  conversation. 

They  came  to  Turner's  house,  looking  down  the  narrow 
valley,  and  alighted.  "  I  say,  this  is  a  jolly  place,"  said 
Wrotham.  "  That's  Turner,  I  suppose.  Let's  go  down  to 
see  what  he's  doing." 

A  tall,  home-spun  clad  figure  could  be  seen  with  its  back 
towards  them,  gazing  into  one  of  the  tanks  some  little  way 
down  the  stream,  while  a  man  by  his  side  was  engaged  in 
some  hidden  operation.  Wrotham  led  the  way  at  a  quick 
pace  along  a  grass  garden  path.  He  was  now  all  eagerness  to 
see  what  was  going  on,  and  had  no  apparent  use  for  the 
moment  for  ladies*  society.  Browne  tied  his  horse  to  a  post 
and  followed  him,  with  Mrs.  RedclifFe  and  Hilda. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  mother  darling  ? "  asked  Hilda. 
"  You  don't  look  well." 

Mrs,  Redcliffe  was  pale,  but  she  gathered  herself  together. 
"  I  am  quite  well,"  she  said.  "  But  I  think  I  will  sit  here  for 
a  bit,  while  you  go  and  see  what  there  is  to  be  seen." 

She  sat  down  on  a  garden  seat,  and  Hilda,  after  being  as- 
sured again  that  there  was  nothing  the  matter  with  her,  went 
on  with  Browne  to  the  ponds. 

Wrotham  had  already  introduced  himself  to  Turner,  and 
was  putting  numerous  inquiries  to  him  by  the  time  they  came 
up.  "  Look  here.  Miss  RedclifFe,"  he  said.  "  This  is  jolly. 
See  all  these  little  beggars  coming  up  to  be  fed  ?  " 

Turner's  man  had  in  his  hand  an  inverted  cone  of  perfo- 
rated zinc,  fastened  to  the  end  of  a  stick.  It  was  full  of  finely- 
chopped  food,  the  component  parts  of  which  need  not  be  in- 


i64  EXTON  MANOR 

quired  into  too  closely.  Every  now  and  then  he  dipped  it  into 
the  water  and  shook  it  gently.  Tiny  fragments  escaped  and 
were  carried  down  the  gentle  stream,  and  scores  of  little  whisk- 
ing tails  would  dart  out  from  under  the  shelter  of  the  reed 
thatching  to  intercept  them. 

They  watched  the  feeding  for  some  time,  and  then  Turner 
took  them  further  down  the  chain  of  ponds.  Wrotham  plied 
him  with  questions,  and  seemed  to  get  a  complete  grasp  of  all 
the  many  complicated  and  debatable  details  of  the  hatchery, 
with  very  little  trouble.  But  he  did  not  forget  Hilda  as  he  did 
so,  passing  on  explanations  and  pointing  out  to  her  what  had 
just  been  pointed  out  to  him  as  if  it  was  of  as  much  impor- 
tance that  she  should  know  how  to  construct  a  fish  hatchery 
on  the  most  approved  principles  as  that  he  should. 

"  The  mistake  in  making  this  place,"  said  Turner,  "  was  in 
digging  the  big  ponds  at  the  top  and  the  tanks  below.  The 
water  is  poor  and  thin  when  it  comes  out  of  the  spring,  all 
right  for  the  fry,  but  it's  a  lot  of  trouble  to  get  enough  life  into 
it  for  the  bigger  fish.  Then  by  the  time  it  gets  down  here  it 
is  richer,  and  the  sun  has  been  at  it.  This  is  the  proper  place 
for  the  yearlings  and  the  two-year-olds,  but  I've  got  to  keep 
them  up  higher  and  the  fry  here.  It  would  cost  too  much 
to  alter  it,  but  it  ought  never  to  have  been  made  in  that  way." 

"See,  Miss  Redcliffe  ?  "  said  Wrotham.  "You've  got  to 
be  precious  careful  when  you  start  a  place  like  this.  No  good 
making  mistakes  that  you  can't  put  right  afterwards." 

"  I  see,"  said  Hilda.     "  I'll  be  careful  not  to  do  it." 

Browne  and  Turner  were  out  of  hearing  as  they  walked 
back  to  the  upper  ponds.  "  That  looks  like  a  case,"  said 
Turner.     "  His  lordship  don't  seem  to  have  lost  much  time." 

"  Pooh  !  "  said  Browne.  "  He's  like  that  with  every  pretty 
girl  he  meets.  Doesn't  mean  anything.  I  say,  I've  been  told 
to  take  you  to  tea  with  the  old  lady.  Wants  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance." 


AN  UNEXPECTED  VISIT  165 

**  Much  rather  leave  her  alone.  Quite  happy  here  by  my- 
self." 

"  Well,  you'll  have  to  come  and  be  inspected.  She  insists 
on  it.     You  needn't  worry  yourself  after  that." 

Turner  suddenly  became  excited.  "That's  the  curse  of 
English  life,"  he  said.  "  Why  should  I  have  to  go  and  show 
myself  to  an  old  woman  I  don't  care  twopence  about,  because 
she  lives  in  a  big  house  and  I  live  in  a  small  one  ?  I  pay  my 
rent  regularly  enough,  and  my  rates  and  taxes  too.  Why 
can't  I  be  let  alone  ?  " 

Browne  laughed.  "  I'll  take  you  down  and  trot  you  out  to- 
morrow afternoon,"  he  said.  "  Then  you  can  get  back  to 
your  shell." 

There  followed  further  inspection  and  technical  discussion, 
abruptly  cut  short  by  a  demand  for  instant  departure  by  Lord 
Wrotham.  "  I  must  get  back,"  he  said.  "  I  shan't  have 
much  more  than  time  to  catch  my  train,  and  her  ladyship's 
horses  aren't  accustomed  to  be  bustled."  So  they  got  into  the 
cart  again  rather  hurriedly  and  drove  away. 

Lord  Wrotham  had  apparently  gained  everything  for  which 
he  had  paid  his  unexpected  visit  to  Exton,  for  there  could 
have  been  few  questions  concerning  the  planning  of  a  model 
fish  hatchery  which  he  had  not  asked  and  Turner  had  an- 
swered. But  it  appeared  that  he  had  not  finished  with  Exton 
yet,  for  he  told  Hilda  on  the  drive  down  that  he  intended  to 
pay  his  mother  a  long  visit  in  a  week  or  two's  time,  and 
expressed  the  hope  that  they  would  meet  frequently  during  its 
course. 

As  they  passed  through  the  gate  leading  from  the  wood  into 
the  park  they  saw  Mrs.  Prentice  coming  along  the  road  towards 
them.  Mrs.  RedclifFe  bowed  to  her  as  they  passed,  and  Browne 
took  off  his  hat.  She  favoured  them  with  a  gaze  of  astonish- 
ment and  the  merest  inclination  of  her  head.  As  the  cart 
passed  her  she  turned  round,  and  adroitly  shaded  off  a  cold 


i66  EXTON  MANOR 

stare  at  Hilda  into  a  smiling  recognition  of  Wrotham's  greet- 
ing. The  transition  was  so  comical  that  a  clear  little  trill  of 
laughter  escaped  from  Hilda's  lips  before  she  was  aware  of  it. 
Mrs.  Prentice  turned  sharp  round  in  the  road,  and  sent  after 
her  a  look  so  full  of  bitter  dislike  that  the  girl  became  suddenly  • 
grave. 

"  I  say,  you've  done  it  now,"  said  Wrotham.  "  If  looks 
could  kill— eh  ?  " 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude,"  she  said.  "But  I  really 
couldn't  help  it.  You  didn't  see  how  she  tried  to  glare  at 
me  and  smile  at  you,  both  at  the  same  time." 

"She's  certainly  got  her  claws  out.  Well,  if  she  makes 
herself  unpleasant  you  send  for  me,  Miss  RedclifFe.  I'll  look 
after  you.  Here  we  are.  We've  had  a  jolly  afternoon 
Good-bye.  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Redcliffe.  Good-bye,  Browne. 
We  shall  all  meet  again  soon."  And  Lord  Wrotham  disap- 
peared through  the  gate  leading  into  the  Abbey  gardens. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A    DISCLOSURE 

Mrs.  Redcliffe  chatted  equably  with  Browne  as  they  drove 
up  to  the  White  House.  There  was  nothing  to  show  that 
she  was  suffering  distress  of  mind.  When  they  reached  home 
she  went  up  to  her  room,  removed  her  outdoor  wraps,  and  sat 
down  to  think. 

It  was  plain  now  that  her  secret  was  known,  not  only  to 
Lady  Wrotham,  but  to  Mrs.  Prentice.  Her  secret ;  yes,  it 
had  come  to  be  that,  and  she  had  hidden  it  in  her  heart, 
hoping,  for  Hilda's  sake,  that  it  would  never  be  divulged. 
And  yet,  when  she  had  first  come  to  England,  now  twenty 
years  ago,  she  had  had  no  intention  of  keeping  the  facts  of  her 
marriage  secret,  nor  even  any  reason  to  feel  ashamed  of  that 
marriage. 

She  let  her  thoughts  wander  back  to  the  early  years  of  her 
life,  spent  on  a  great  cattle  station  in  Northern  Queensland. 
She  again  saw  the  big,  deep-verandahed  wooden  house,  m 
which  she  had  been  brought  up  with  a  curious  mixture  of 
English  convention  and  wild  liberty,  the  groups  of  outbuild- 
ings and  stock-yards  lying  about  it,  the  carefully  irrigated 
garden,  blossoming  riotously  with  strange  trees  and  fruits  and 
flowers,  the  few  cultivated  fields,  and,  outside  the  little  oasis 
of  habitation,  the  illimitable  distances  of  the  bush,  now  parched 
and  bare,  now  stung  into  miraculous  verdure  by  a  single  night 
of  tropical  rain.  She  reviewed  her  childhood  and  girlhood,  so 
monotonous  to  outward  view  that  a  few  words  would  have 
sufficed  to  describe  the  breaks  that  there  had  been  in  it  during 
twenty  years — two  or  three  journeys  to  Brisbane,  a  season  at 
Sydney,  an  occasional  visit  to  a  distant  station,  or  a  drive  of  a 
hundred  miles  to  an  up-country  race-meeting.     These  were 

167 


,68  EXTON  MANOR 

all,  and  yet  the  life  had  been  full  and  happy.  In  her  father's 
house,  thirty  miles  distant  from  that  of  his  nearest  neighbour, 
•  there  had  been  refinement,  even  luxury,  a  constant  stream  of 
books  and  periodicals,  so  that,  though  cut  ofF  by  distance  from 
the  movement  of  the  vi^orld,  they  were  never  in  exile.  There 
had  been  many  visitors,  frequently  some  welcome  guest  from 
the  warm  centres  of  life,  of  whom,  in  the  intimacy  created  by 
isolation,  there  had  been  always  a  memory  kept  alive  to  mark 
the  date  of  his  stay.  And  the  outdoor  activities  in  the  clear, 
sparkling  air  had  nursed  a  radiant  health,  that  made  every 
dawn  an  excitement  and  every  night  a  sweet,  dreamless  rest. 
She  could  recall  nothing  but  happiness  in  those  far-off  years, 
during  which  she  and  her  elder  sister  had  been  so  perpetually 
and  closely  together  that  they  had  hardly  had  a  thought  or  an 
action  apart  from  one  another. 

She  remembered,  oh,  so  clearly,  the  excitement  of  preparing 
for  a  visit  from  the  Governor  of  the  colony,  who  was  to  stay 
for  the  night  at  her  father's  station,  the  coming  and  the  going, 
and,  blotting  out  every  other  recollection  of  the  great  day,  the 
handsome  young  man  in  his  suite,  who  from  the  very  moment 
of  dismounting  from  his  horse,  and  looking  up  to  see  the  two 
fair  girls  standing  arms-entwined  above  him,  had  devoted  him- 
self to  them;  and,  as  he  rode  away  the  next  morning,  had 
looked  up  again,  with  a  message  in  his  eyes  for  one  of  them — 
or  perhaps  for  either,  for  he  seemed  to  have  wooed  them  both 
in  those  few  glamorous  hours,  and  had  certainly  had  no  oppor- 
tunity of  speaking  to  either  of  them  apart. 

She  remembered  how  changed  the  life  of  herself  and  her 
sister  had  been  after  that  wonderful  visit.  Love  had  never 
so  much  as  brushed  them  with  his  wings  before,  and  now  he 
had  transfixed  them  both  with  one  fiery  arrow.  And  yet  such 
was  their  mutual  affection  and  confidence  that  they  had  been 
able  to  ease  their  laden  bosoms  of  the  sweet  pain  by  saying 
to  each  other  what  other  girls  could  only  have  whispered  to 


A  DISCLOSURE  169 

their  own  hearts ;  and  it  had  brought  them  still  closer  together, 
if  that  were  possible,  for  there  was  no  faintest  breath  of  jeal- 
ousy, or  self-seeking,  in  the  mind  of  either  of  them. 

A  few  weeks  later  he  had  come  again,  released  from  attend- 
ance on  his  chief,  and  when  he  went  away  a  month  later  he 
took  the  elder  sister  with  him  as  his  bride.  Surely  it  had  been 
the  strangest  of  wooings ;  a  love  idyll  in  which  one  heart  beat 
for  two,  and  two  as  one.  But  that  could  only  last  until  the 
idyllic  stage  merged  into  the  desire  for  marriage  on  the  part  of 
the  perplexed  lover.  A  word,  a  breath  from  the  actual  had 
brought  the  younger  of  the  two  sisters  to  the  earth.  It  needed 
scarcely  more  than  the  bitter  hour  she  spent  by  herself,  almost 
the  first  in  which  she  had  intentionally  kept  apart  from  her 
twin  soul,  to  incline  the  balance  against  her,  and  the  end  came 
quickly  when  the  one,  still  innocently  and  gladly,  accepted  the 
homage,  and  the  other  stood  back  and  closed  up  her  heart. 

And  so  the  elder  sister  took  her  happiness  and  went  away, 
and  the  younger  stayed  behind,  having  been  bereft  of  sister 
and  lover  at  one  stroke. 

Then  within  a  year  had  come  the  tragedy  of  death,  and 
following  it  quickly  the  second  wooing,  so  different  from  the 
first,  as  the  sweetness  of  autumn,  resting  on  loss  and  knowl- 
edge, is  different  from  the  sharp  new  sweetness  of  Spring. 
It  was  the  wooing  by  a  saddened  man  of  a  girl  with  a 
woman's  soul,  tender  and  experienced,  and  it  fed  on  feelings 
that  neither  had  known  before  sorrow  had  come  to  them. 
But  both  of  them  were  young,  and  the  life  which  followed 
the  second  marriage  was  full  of  deep  happiness  fo  he  few 
short  years  that  it  lasted.  Then  the  gallant  husband  and 
lover  had  died  suddenly,  and  once  again  there  was  deep  sorrow, 
and  no  hope  of  gladness  any  more. 

Mrs.  Redcliffe  sat  with  her  hands  In  her  lap,  looking  out 
of  the  window  across  the  fresh  green  of  the  park,  and  the 
waving  tree  branches  under  the  westering  sun,  for  a  longtime. 


170  EXTON  MANOR 

This  was  her  story  up  to  the  time  of  her  coming  to  Eng- 
land twenty  years  before,  and  it  contained  what  women  like 
Mrs.  Prentice — better  women  than  Mrs.  Prentice,  and  men 
too — called  a  deadly  sin, — she  forced  herself  to  use  the  word 
— adultery.  Her  face  burned,  but  not  with  shame.  Hilda 
might  have  been  startled  if  she  had  been  with  her  now,  for 
never  in  the  whole  of  her  twenty  years  had  she  seen  a  look 
of  anger  on  that  quiet  and  still  beautiful  face.  Up  to  that 
point  in  her  story  had  she  anything  to  reproach  herself  with  ? 
Loyalty  to  her  dead  husband,  to  her  dearly-loved  sister,  to  the 
virgin  purity  of  her  own  girlhood,  refuted  all  blame.  There, 
she  was  in  arms  against  the  world,  if  the  world  should  condemn 
her. 

But  afterwards  !  There,  indeed,  she  might  have  taken  a 
wrong  step,  or  refrained  from  taking  a  right  one.  She  had 
never  told  Hilda  of  her  father's  previous  marriage. 

She  had  stayed  in  Australia  for  six  months  of  her  widow- 
hood. During  that  time  her  father  had  died,  and  there  was 
nothing  to  keep  her  in  a  country  which  contained  now  only 
the  graves  of  those  she  had  loved,  for  her  mother  had  died 
too,  during  her  early  childhood.  She  made  up  her  mmd  to 
come  home  to  England,  and  bury  herself  and  her  baby  in 
some  quiet  country  village,  to  which,  in  the  sickness  of  her 
soul,  she  looked  as  a  haven  of  peace  and  healing.  She  was 
almost  entirely  without  friends  in  England,  for  her  father's 
station,  and  that  which  her  husband  had  bought  after  his  first 
marriage,  were  both  many  miles  away  from  civilization,  and 
in  th  '"-ter  especially  she  had  been  cut  off  from  society,  and 
had  made  few  friends  since  her  girlhood.  So  there  was  no 
friend  to  whom  she  cared  to  go  when  she  landed  in  the 
strange  country  which  she  had  always  been  accustomed  to 
call  "  home."  Her  husband's  family  had  dwindled  till  there 
was  only  left  one  small  boy,  who  was  being  brought  up  in 
his  ancestral  home  by  his  mother's  relations.     Her  father's 


A  DISCLOSURE  171 

family,  so  far  as  she  knew,  was  extinct ;  he  had  not  been  in 
England  i'or  thirty  years,  and  long  before  his  death  had  ceased 
to  correspond  with  any  relations  he  might  have  had.  She  and 
her  baby  were  alone  in  the  world,  and  she  must  begin  her  life 
again  and  make  new  friends,  for  the  child's  sake,  if  not  for 
her  own. 

It  was  not  until  she  had  lived  in  England  for  a  year  or  more 
that  the  poor  lady  gained  the  added  distress  of  feeling  that,  in 
the  eyes  of  many  of  her  neighbours,  her  position,  if  it  were 
known,  would  be  considered  an  equivocal  one.  Her  life  had 
been  spent  in  ways  so  far  apart  from  the  mass  of  mankind  that 
it  had  never  once  suggested  itself  to  her  mind,  nor  had  it  been 
suggested  to  her  from  outside,  that  her  marriage  was  in  any 
way  irregular.  The  shock  she  sustained  when  she  learnt  that 
by  English  law  her  child  was  illegitimate  was  severe,  and  she 
received  one  still  more  severe  when  it  was  brought  home  to 
her  that  there  were  those  who  would  regard  her  marriage,  did 
they  know  of  its  circumstances,  as  no  marriage  at  all,  but  a 
sin  against  righteousness.  It  had  never  been  her  intention  to 
keep  from  her  child  the  knowledge  of  her  sister's  marriage. 
It  would  have  seemed  the  most  natural  thing  to  tell  her  all  about 
that  dearly  loved  sister,  when  she  should  be  of  an  age  to  un- 
derstand, and  of  the  mingled  sadness  and  happiness  of  her 
own  life.  But  how  could  she  do  so  in  the  light  of  her  new 
knowledge  ?  The  very  statement  of  the  facts  would  take  the 
shape  of  an  excuse,  and  she  had  no  mind  to  excuse  herself  or 
her  husband  to  their  daughter.  And  besides,  even  if  the  child 
were  brought  to  regard  the  story  in  the  light  that  her  mother 
would  desire — the  light  in  which  she  herself  regarded  it — 
as  of  course  she  would  have  been  taught,  she  could  not  be 
told  to  keep  it  secret ;  and  if  she  spoke  of  it  to  others  who 
did  not  know  of  it,  there  might  be  a  rude  awakening  for  her. 

Any  kind  of  concealment  was  alien  from  Mrs.  RedclifFe's 
nature,  but  the  circumstances  in  which  she  was  placed  made 


172  EXTON  MANOR 

the  concealment  that  she  did  practise  only  passive.  She  lived 
for  ten  years  in  a  moorland  sea-coast  village  in  Yorkshire, 
very  quietly,  seeing  but  few  people  of  her  own  class,  and 
those  for  the  most  part  her  neighbours.  None  of  them  knew 
her  past  history,  and  it  would  have  seemed  like  a  desecration 
of  something  holy  to  speak  of  it  to  them.  In  her  somewhat 
unusual  innocence  of  the  ways  of  the  world  it  did  not  occur 
to  her  that,  even  if  no  rumour  from  the  world  that  had  known 
her  brought  the  facts  of  her  marriage  to  the  light,  there  might 
arise  circumstances — her  daughter's  marriage,  for  instance — 
in  which  she  would  have  to  disclose  them.  And  so,  merely 
keeping  her  peace,  she  had  let  Hilda  grow  up  without  the 
knowledge. 

For  some  time  now  she  had  said  to  herself  that  she  had 
been  mistaken,  that  she  ought  to  have  prepared  her  daughter 
for  what  she  must  know  sooner  or  later,  at  a  time  when  the 
story  would  have  made  no  painful  impression  on  the  child's 
mind.  She  had  prepared  herself,  at  any  rate,  for  the  necessity 
of  telling  her  before  very  long,  but  had  not  yet  fixed  a  date 
for  doing  so  ;  not  through  lack  of  courage,  for  when  she  saw 
the  necessity  for  any  action,  however  painful,  it  was  not  her 
habit  to  delay  taking  it.  But  she  shrank  from  the  necessity 
of  distressing  Hilda,  and  there  had  arisen  no  occasion  which 
made  one  time  more  than  another  seem  suitable  for  the  dis- 
closure. 

But  now,  as  she  sat  quietly  at  her  window,  thinking  over 
these  things,  with  the  sole  desire  to  act  rightly  with  regard  to 
them,  she  saw  that  the  time  had  come,  and,  if  she  were  to  delay 
longer,  Hilda  might  come  to  know  of  the  secret  which  con- 
cerned her,  not  from  her  own  mother  but  from  some  unsym- 
pathetic stranger. 

It  would  be  a  very  painful  matter  to  tell  her.  Mrs.  Red- 
clifFe  was  not  disposed  to  dwell  on  the  pain  it  would  bring  to 
herself,  but  she  wanted  above  all  to  make  the  disclosure  in  a 


A  DISCLOSURE  173 

wav  which  would  absolve  her  husband's  name  and  her  own 
youth  from  blame.  She  could  not  accept  blame,  and,  know- 
ing her  daughter  as  she  did,  she  had  little  fear  but  that  the 
girl  would  warmly  espouse  her  cause.  But  it  was  the  very 
attitude  of  espousal  that  she  dreaded.  By  her  confession — 
for  her  tale  must  take  the  form  of  a  confession — she  must  def- 
initely take  up  the  attitude  of  one  having,  however  unknow- 
ingly, broken  an  accepted  law.  And  part  of  the  trouble  was 
that  she  had  come  tacitly  to  accept  the  law,  as  a  social,  if 
not  a  religious,  ordinance.  She  was  not  of  the  stuff  of  which 
rebels  against  convention  are  made.  If  she  had  known  at 
the  time  of  her  marriage  what  she  knew  now,  it  would  not 
have  taken  place.  She  had  put  away  from  her  the  half-prof- 
fered love  when  she  had  first  drawn  back  and  allowed  her 
sister  to  take  the  happiness  which  she  then  resigned  for  her- 
self. And  she  would  not  have  allowed  the  love  to  spring  up 
again  in  her  heart  and  accepted  the  happiness  after  all,  if  she 
had  known  of  a  law  that  would  have  forbade  her.  Renuncia- 
tion was  a  flower  that  grew  readily  in  the  soil  of  her  nature, 
and  happiness  would  blossom  alongside  of  it,  but  not  by  chok- 
ing it  out. 

Then  she  must  accuse  herself  to  her  daughter  of  having 
done  something  which  she  would  not  have  done  if  she  had 
had  more  knowledge,  something  that  she  would  be  sorry  to 
know  that  another  woman  had  done  with  her  eyes  open.  Her 
unflinching  honesty  faced  her  with  that  dilemma ;  for  it  was 
a  dilemma.  When  all  had  been  said  that  could  be  said 
against  her  marriage,  she  could  not  regret  it,  nor  suffer  her 
daughter  to  look  upon  It  as  anything  but  a  perfect  and  God- 
blessed  union.  How  should  she  reconcile  these  two  opposing 
views  ?  They  were  irreconcilable,  and  at  last  she  took  refuge 
in  the  thought  that  there  was  something  definite  to  be  gone 
through,  and  that  its  difficulty  could  not  be  softened  by 
further  cogitation.     She  must  tell  Hilda  her  story  at  once,  and 


174  EXrON  MANOR 

tell  it  without  reservation  or  excuses,  and  afterwards,  they  two 
together  must  make  what  adjustments  they  could. 

Then  she  arose  and  prepared  herself,  kneeling  at  her  bed- 
side, and  went  down  to  her  daughter.  She  told  her  that  she 
had  something  serious  to  say  to  her,  and  they  went  into  a  lit- 
tle room  off  the  parlour,  where  they  would  not  be  likely  to  be 
disturbed. 

"Hilda  darling,"  she  said,  "I  have  something  to  tell  you 
which  perhaps  you  ought  to  have  known  years  ago.  I  feel 
now,  for  reasons  which  I  will  tell  you  later,  that  I  must  not 
keep  it  from  you  any  longer,  and  you  must  listen  carefully, 
so  that  you  may  not  misjudge." 

Hilda's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  with  some  fear.  She 
could  see  that  her  mother,  beneath  her  placid  exterior,  was 
deeply  moved,  and  that  she  dreaded  the  ordeal  that  lay  before  her. 

"Mother  dear,"  she  said,  "don't  tell  me  if  it  hurts  you. 
Please  don't.  Everything  you  do  is  right;  and  if  you  haven't 
told  me  before,  you  must  have  had  the  best  reasons  for  not 
doing  so." 

"  There  were  no  best  reasons,"  said  her  mother.  "  It  was 
difficult  to  know  what  to  do.  But  there  are  reasons  now  why 
you  must  hear  what  I  have  to  tell  you,  and  perhaps  share  some 
trouble  with  me." 

"Then  I  will  listen,"  said  the  girl.  *' You  have  never  let 
me  share  any  trouble,  mother ;  you  have  kept  everything  but 
happiness  away  from  me."  She  took  her  mother's  hand  and 
pressed  it.     And  then  Mrs.  Redcliffe  told  her  story. 

"  I  have  told  you  of  my  dear  sister,"  she  said,  "and  of  how 
we  were  brought  up  closely  together  and  loved  each  other. 
Perhaps  I  have  not  talked  to  you  quite  as  much  as  I  should 
have  liked  to  do,  because  of  what  I  was  keeping  back.  But 
you  do  know,  I  think,  how  much  we  were  to  each  other 
throughout  our  girlhood,  so  that  until — until  her  marriage,  we 
were  almost  as  on?," 


A  DISCLOSURE  175 

"  Her  marriage  !  "  Hilda  would  have  echoed,  but  that  her 
instinct  told  her  to  keep  silence. 

"  When  your  dear  father  came  to  us  as  a  young  man,  we 
were  all  three  constantly  together.  We  both  loved  him,  and 
made  no  secret  of  our  love  to  each  other,  and  he  loved  both 
of  us  in  a  way,  perhaps,  that  some  might  find  it  difficult  to 
understand.  But  he  had  to  choose  one  of  us,  and,  Hilda 
dear,  this  is  what  I  have  never  told  you  before,  he  chose— 
her." 

She  was  silent  for  a  space,  choosing  the  words  that  were  to 
follow. 

"  Yes,  mother  dear,"  said  Hilda  softly,  but  it  was  plain  that 
she  did  not  yet  understand. 

"  They  were  married,"  said  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  speaking  more 
quickly.  "  But  she  died  in  less  than  a  year,  and  then  he  came 
back  to  me.  It  was  not  difficult  for  me  to  love  him.  It 
would  have  been  very  difficult  for  any  woman  not  to  do  so.  I 
had  always  loved  him,  and  there  was  nothing  that  I  then  knew 
of,  nothing  in  my  mind  or  my  knowledge  of  the  world,  that 
could  have  held  me  back  from  accepting  his  love.  And  my 
dear  sister,  before  she  died,  urged  him  to  marry  me ;  so  that 
there  could  be  no  feeling  that  we  were  acting  disloyally  to  her 
memory,  which  was  always  cherished  between  us." 

She  breathed  a  deep  sigh.  She  had  taken  the  plunge,  and 
the  worst  was  over ;  but  the  strain  had  been  great. 

"  Yes,  mother  dear,"  said  Hilda  again,  gently.  She  looked 
at  her  mother's  eyes,  withheld  from  her,  as  if  she  expected 
something  more,  and  when  nothing  more  came,  she  said, 
"  But  is  that  all  ?  Why  couldn't  you  have  told  me  that  be- 
fore ?  " 

"  Oh,  Hilda,  can't  you  see  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  with 
agitation.  "  I  didn't  know  until  afterwards — I  had  no  idea, 
until  your  father  died,  and  I  came  to  England  with  you,  a 
tiny  baby,  that — that  mine  was  a  marriage  which  is  not — not 


176  EXTON  MANOR 

recognized  in  this  country.  In  Australia  it  is  diiFerent,  but  I 
had  never  heard  that  there  was  anything  against  it." 
"  But  what  could  there  be  against  it,  mother  ?  " 
"  Hilda,  you  have  lived  more  in  the  world  than  I  did  in  my 
girlhood.  You  have  heard  of  things  which  you  may  not  have 
thought  over,  but  which  are  not  quite  unfamiliar  to  you,  as 
they  were  to  me.  You  have  heard  that  there  have  been  dis- 
cussions about — I  must  use  the  odious  phrase — marriage  with 
the  deceased  wife's  sister." 

"  Oh  1 "  The  girl's  face  changed  involuntarily.  Her 
mother  went  on  quickly,  her  voice  taking  an  intonation  that 
was  almost  pleading.  "  I  have  come  to  see  that — in  some 
cases — there  may  be  reasons  why  such  marriages  might  not  be 
advisable,  but  not  in  my  own  case.  No  one  who  knew  the 
circumstances  could  say  so.  I  enjoyed  perfect  happiness,  and 
all  my  nature  was  lifted  and  deepened  by  it.  There  could 
have  been  no  more  perfect  marriage,  and  it  was  only  made 
more  perfect  by  what  had  gone  before.  Whatever  wrong 
thing  I  did,  I  could  not  commit  the  wickedness  of  regretting 
it.  I  should  be  sinning  against  the  light  that  has  been  given 
me  if  I  tried  to  do  so.  I  was  blessed  in  it,  as  well  as  made 
perfectly  happy.  Whatever  may  be  said — against — it  would 
be  a  lie  to  say  that  my  marriage  was  displeasing  to  God." 
"  Oh,  mother,  but  who  could  say  such  a  thing  ?  " 
"  There  are  many  who  would  say  it ;  many  religious 
people." 

"  Not  good  people." 

"  Yes,  good  people ;  though  I  know  from  my  own  inward 
experience  that  they  would  be  wrong." 

*'I  should  not  mind  what  such  people  said." 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  do  not  mind.     I  mind  to  some  extent 

for  my  own  sake,  but  not  perhaps  very  much,  as  the  step  that 

they  would  blame  me  for  has  brought  me  more  good  than  any 

other  I  have  ever  taken.     But  I  mind  very  much  for  your 


A  DISCLOSURE  177 

sake,  my  darling,  and  that  is  why  I  have  kept  the  knowledge 
of  the  truth  from  you." 

Hilda  threw  herself  at  her  mother's  feet  and  embraced  her. 
"  Dearest  mother,"  she  said  in  tears,  "  I  wish  you  had  told 
me  before.  How  could  you  think — oh,  you  can't  think,  that 
I  should  not  be  glad  to  shield  you  from  the  unjust  things 
narrow-minded  people  might  say,  that  I  should  want  to  be 
apart  from  you  in  this  or  in  anything." 

"  No,  darling;  I  know.  I  don't  think  I  have  ever  doubted 
that  you  would  feel  like  that  about  what  I  have  told  you. 
But  it  has  been  so  difficult  to  tell.  I  have  often  said  to  my- 
self that  I  could  not  tell  you  without  appearing  to  be  excusing 
myself,  and  I  am  too  proud  of  the  memory  of  my  married 
life,  and  of  your  father's  memory,  to  bear  the  thought  of  ex- 
cusing anything  in  it." 

"  Oh,  no,  mother.  And  now  you  will  talk  to  me  more  of 
it,  won't  you  ?  You  will  tell  me  about  father  when  you  first 
knew  him,  and  of  Aunt  Margaret." 

**  Yes.  That  will  be  one  of  my  consolations.  I  would  so 
often  have  liked  to  tell  you  more  than  I  have  been  able  to 
do,  for  fear  you  should  ask  me  questions  that  I  was  not  pre- 
pared to  answer.  But,  Hilda,  I  have  not  told  you  yet  why 
I  have  had  to  make  up  my  mind,  quickly  at  last,  to  tell  you 
of  this  now.  It  has  so  happened  that  no  one  in  England  has 
known  of  it  hitherto,  no  one  whom  we  in  our  quiet  way  of 
life  have  met.  If  it  had  not  been  so,  I  must  have  told  you 
before.  I  could  not  have  helped  it.  But  Lady  Wrotham 
knows,  and  we  may  have  to  prepare  ourselves  for  cold  looks.** 

"  Lady  Wrotham,  mother  ?     How  does  she  know  ?  " 

"  You  heard  what  Lord  Wrotham  said.  She  knows  the 
family  to  which  your  father  belonged,  although  I  have  never 
mentioned  the  connection  to  any  one  in  England — not  be- 
cause there  was  any  reason  for  concealing  it,  but  because  no 
occasion  has  arisen  which  would  lead  me  to  do  so.     And  she 


178  EXTON  MANOR 

was  in  Australia  at  the  time  of  my  marriage.  Your  father 
may  have  known  her  when  he  was  aide-de-camp  to  Lord 
Chippenham,  the  Governor  of  Queensland,  though  if  he  did 
he  never  mentioned  it  to  me." 

"  But  surely,  mother,  Lady  Wrotham  would  not  say  any- 
thing to  any  one  else  if — I  mean  until  she  had  seen  you." 

"  I  should  have  thought  not ;  but  1  very  much  doubt 
whether  she  has  not  already  done  so." 

"  To  Lord  Wrotham,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  He  must  know,  I  should  think,  but  I  should  not  expect 
him  to  attach  any  great  importance  to  it,  either  one  way  or 
the  other.  He  would  not  take  the  strictest  view,  and  it 
would  be  enough  for  him  that  in  the  colonies  such  marriages 
as  mine  are  as  regular  as  others.  No,  I  do  not  mean  Lord 
Wrotham.  I  am  nearly  certain  that  she  must  have  told  Mrs. 
Prentice." 

"  Oh,  mother,  that  woman  !  " 

"  I  am  afraid  that  it  is  so.  And  Mrs.  Prentice  is  just  the 
woman  who,  I  am  afraid,  would  think  herself  bound  by  her 
religious  creed  to  make  the  worst  of  what  irregularity  there  is." 

"  Then  that  accounts  for  her  horrid  behaviour  to  you  on 
Sunday  and  to-day.  I  thought  that  it  was  just  snobbishness 
and  jealousy." 

"  I  think  that  Lady  Wrotham  has  told  her." 

"  Then  I  think  that  she  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself. 
What  kind  of  woman  can  she  be  to  come  down  here,  and, 
before  she  has  even  seen  you,  to  make  scandal  ? — and  with 
Mrs.  Prentice,  of  all  people  !  " 

"  It  would  not  be  the  act  of  a  charitable  woman.  But  we 
must  be  prepared  for  its  having  taken  place.  People  will 
talk — I  fear  there  is  no  doubt  of  it,  for  if  Mrs.  Prentice 
knows,  as  I  think  she  does,  she  will  not  keep  it  to  herself. 
The  talk  will  not  last  long.  I  am  what  I  am,  and  it  will 
make  little  difference  in  the  long  run.     Those  whose  friend- 


A  DISCLOSURE  179 

ship  is  worth  having  will  not  withdraw  it.  I  can  go  through 
with  it,  but  oh,  Hilda  darling,  you  must  go  through  it  too, 
and  it  will  take  away  something  of  your  youth  and  your  trust 
in  mankind.  You  must  see,  even  in  this  small  place,  some- 
thing of  the  cruel  side  of  the  world,  and  I  would  so  willingly 
have  had  you  blind  to  it  a  few  years  longer." 

"Mother  dear,  I  am  glad  of  it.  Yes,  I  am  glad.  If 
trouble  comes  to  you  because  of  what  you  have  told  me,  I 
shall  share  it  with  you ;  and  if  I  could  love  you  better  than 
I  do  now,  it  would  make  me.  We  have  been  close  together, 
haven't  we  ?  And  now  we  shall  be  closer  still.  Dearest,  I 
know  it  must  have  hurt  you  to  tell  me,  but  you  do  feel  now 
that  it  is  a  relief,  don't  you  ? " 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  kissed  her.  "  Yes,  It  is  a  relief,"  she  said, 
the  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  And  now  we  must  go  about  our 
work  and  live  our  life  just  as  usual.  We  are  both  prepared 
for  what  may  come,  and  we  need  not  fear  it." 

They  went  out  of  the  room  together.  The  bitter  hour  was 
over,  and  the  sting  was  drawn  from  what  should  come  after 
it.  But  Mrs.  Redcliffe  felt  sorrowfully  that  life  could  never 
be  quite  the  same  to  her  child  as  it  had  been  before. 


CHAPTER  XV 

DISCORD 

It  was  hardly  to  be  supposed  that  the  passive,  collected 
waiting  on  developments  which,  to  Mrs.  Redcliffe,  was  the 
natural  attitude  to  take  up  in  face  of  difficulties,  would  com- 
mend itself  to  a  girl  of  Hilda's  ardent  temperament.  When 
she  thought  over  the  disclosures  that  had  been  made  to  her, 
it  was  not  with  any  regard  to  those  disclosures  themselves, 
except  as  they  revealed  to  her  a  hitherto  unknown  passage 
in  her  mother's  life.  She  gave  no  thought  to  the  general 
problem  in  which  they  were  involved.  She  did  not  even  tell 
herself  that  her  mother  had  done  right.  There  was  no  ques- 
tion of  right  or  wrong  in  her  mind.  She  started  with  the 
undiscussed  assumption  that  her  mother  had  done  right,  and 
her  anger  burnt  hotly  against  the  world  which  would  blame 
her.  She  viewed  all  mankind  with  suspicion,  and  emptied 
her  mind  of  friendship  to  every  one,  since  none  had  as  yet 
had  an  opportunity  of  espousing  warmly  her  mother's  cause, 
and  from  henceforward  she  would  have  no  friends  who  did 
not  do  so.  But  most  of  all  her  anger  burnt  against  those 
who  had  already  taken  a  side,  or  so  she  thought,  against 
her  mother,  and  she  could  not  rest  until  she  had  confronted 
them,  and  shown  her  wrath  and  contempt.  To  her  mother 
she  was  all  tenderness  and  gaiety,  and  Mrs.  RedclifFe's  sore 
heart  gained  some  solace  from  the  thought  that  the  girl's 
spirit  was  not  subdued  by  what  she  had  told  her.  If  she  had 
had  any  idea  of  the  ferment  of  anger  and  rebellion  going  on 
in  Hilda's  mind,  she  would  have  greatly  feared. 

Hilda  met  Mrs.  Prentice  the  next  morning  on  her  way  to 
the  village.  She  drew  in  her  breath  as  she  saw  her  enemy 
approaching  her,  and  went  on  to  meet  her,  outwardly  calm, 

J  80 


DISCORD  i8i 

but  raging  inwardly  like  a  young  tiger  ready  for  the  spring. 
Mrs.  Prentice  was  for  giving  her  the  merest  shadow  of  a  bow 
and  passing  on  her  way  with  her  nose  in  the  air,  but  Hilda 
stood  in  front  of  her. 

"  Will  you  please  tell  me,"  she  said,  *'  why  you  have 
suddenly  taken  to  cutting  me  in  the  road  ?  " 

Mrs.  Prentice  was  taken  aback  for  the  moment.  The  girl 
spoke  quietly,  but  her  nostrils  were  dilated,  and  there  was  a 
look  in  her  eyes  which  gave  the  older  woman  a  sensation 
of  discomfort.  But  it  was  not  for  long.  It  was  not  her 
custom  to  refuse  battle.  She  gloried  in  it  when  she  was  not 
afraid  of  offending,  and  she  leapt  at  once  to  the  fray. 

"  Cutting  you !  "  she  echoed.  "  Why  should  I  take  the 
trouble  to  cut  you,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  That  is  what  I  want  to  know,"  said  Hilda.  "  At  least, 
I  don't  mind  your  cutting  me  in  the  least,  but  my  mother — 
I  should  like  to  know  what  is  the  reason  of  your  abominable 
behaviour  to  her." 

Mrs.  Prentice  lost  her  temper  at  once.  "  How  dare  you 
speak  to  me  in  that  fashion,  you  impudent  girl !  "  she  ex- 
claimed. 

*^  Because  you  deserve  it,"  replied  Hilda.  "  My  mother 
is  the  best  woman  in  the  world,  and  she  has  always  been 
kind  and  good  to  you.  Only  a  week  ago  she  entertained 
you,  and  when  she  asked  you  to  come  to  our  house  on  Sunday 
you  could  hardly  give  her  a  civil  answer.  Any  one  would 
think  it  was  a  condescension  on  your  part  to  give  us  your 
company." 

"  It  would  be  a  condescension,"  replied  Mrs.  Prentice 
angrily.  "  I  hope  never  to  darken  your  mother's  doors 
again." 

Hilda  became  icy  calm,  but  her  face  grew  white.  "  You 
never  shall,"  she  said*  *'  but  you  shall  tell  me  why  you  say 
so. 


i82  EXTON  MANOR 

"  I  shall  not  tell  you,"  cried  Mrs.  Prentice.     "  Let  me  pass." 

But  Hilda  stood  in  her  way.  "  You  shall  not  go  till  you 
have  told  me,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Prentice  saw  her  way  to  wound.  "  You  had  better 
ask  Mrs.  RedclifFe  yourself,"  she  said.  "  She  will  know  well 
enough  why  no  woman  whose  life  is  guided  by  the  laws  of 
the  Christian  religion  will  enter  her  house." 

"  Tour  life  guided  by  the  Christian  religion ! "  repeated 
Hilda  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  think  you  are  the  most  irreligious 
woman  I  have  ever  known,  full  of  spite  and  meanness.  You 
are  not  fit  to  tie  my  mother's  shoe-laces." 

"You  shall  pay  for  this,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice,  quivering. 
"  You  to  dare  to  speak  to  me  like  that]  You  with  your 
brazen  face !  I  have  always  disliked  you  from  the  first. 
You  have  tried  your  best  to  get  my  son  into  your  toils,  and 
now  that  there  is  higher  game  in  view  you  are  pursuing  that 
in  the  same  shameless  way." 

"I  don't  in  the  least  know  what  you  mean,"  replied  Hilda. 
**  Except  that  you  are  probably  trying  to  hatch  some  false 
scandal  against  me.  As  for  Fred,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do 
that  you  are  telling  a  lie.  I  don't  mind  at  all  what  you  say 
about  that.  Nobody  will  believe  you.  Your  spiteful  tongue 
is  too  well  known.  But  you  had  better  be  careful  what  you 
say  about  my  mother." 

She  stopped  and  turned  round  quickly,  for  Mrs.  Prentice's 
face,  looking  past  lier  for  a  moment,  had  changed.  Mrs. 
RedcliflFe  was  coming  down  the  road,  and  had  almost  reached 
them. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice,  "you  had  better  let  me  pass. 
I  have  no  wish  to  talk  to  Mrs.  RedclifFe  at  present." 

"  No,  but  you  shall,"  said  Hilda.  "  Mother,  this  woman 
has  been  saying  the  most  outrageous  things.  It  is  impossible 
to  go  on  living  in  the  same  place  with  her  unless  we  come  to 
some  understanding,  now." 


DISCORD  183 

"I  have  been  grossly  insulted,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice,  "and  I 
will  put  up  with  it  no  longer.  Thank  heaven  there  is  now  no 
further  need  to  pretend  friendship.  For  the  future  we  will 
meet  as  strangers.  Perhaps  I  may  now  be  allowed  to  continue 
on  my  way." 

"I  think,  Mrs.  Prentice,"  said  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  "that  Hilda 
is  right.  There  are  things  that  had  better  be  said  before  we 
agree  to  treat  each  other  as  strangers." 

"You  say  that  she  is  right !  "  cried  Mrs.  Prentice.  "She 
plants  herself  in  front  of  me,  preventing  me  almost  by  main 
force  from  going  my  way,  and  pours  out  a  flood  of  vulgar 
abuse  in  the  middle  of  the  public  road,  and  you  say  that  she  is 
right." 

*'  I  do  not  say  that  she  was  right  to  stop  you  in  the  road," 
said  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  "  but  since  matters  have  gone  so  far,  we 
had  better  finish  them  once  and  for  all." 

"  A  vulgar  wrangle  in  the  middle  of  the  road  !  "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Prentice,  "  and  I  the  wife  of  the  Vicar  !  It  is  most  un- 
seemly, and,  under  the  circumstances,  it  is  worse  than  unseemly. 
I  absolutely  refuse  to  say  anything  more."  And  she  began  to 
walk  up  the  hill. 

But  Mrs.  RedclifFe  turned  with  her.  "  Mrs.  Prentice," 
she  said,  "  you  have  known  me  for  five  years,  and  we  have 
been,  if  not  friends,  certainly  on  friendly  terms.  I  think  you 
owe  it  to  me  to  come  in  now  and  clear  up  what  lies  between 
us." 

"  What  lies  between  us  ?  "  echoed  Mrs.  Prentice.  "May  I 
ask  if  you  wish  your  daughter  to  know  what,  as  you  say,  lies 
between  us  ?  " 

Hilda  broke  in.  "There  is  nothing  you  can  talk  about 
that  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  Do  you  think  mother  would 
keep  from  me  anything  that  you  could  get  hold  of  to  harm 
her  ?  " 

"  Hilda,"  said  Mrs,  RedclifFe  peremptorily,  "  you  must  not 


i84  EXTON  MANOR 

speak  in  that  way.  You  are  doing  me  no  kindness.  Come, 
Mrs.  Prentice,  you  will  hardly  refuse  to  say  to  my  face  what 
you  are  ready  to  use  against  me  behind  my  back." 

Mrs.  Prentice  bridled.  "  I  had  no  intention  of  saying  a 
word  to  any  one,"  she  replied,  "  and  should  not  have  men- 
tioned anything  had  it  not  been  forced  on  me." 

"  You  said,  at  any  rate,  that  you  would  never  darken  our 
doors  again,"  said  Hilda,  but  in  a  quieter  tone. 

"  And  you  have  shown  plainly  that  you  wish  to  avoid  me  as 
much  as  possible,"  added  Mrs.  Redcliffe.  "You  could  hardly 
expect  to  keep  to  yourself  what  you  have  learnt  under  those 
circumstances.  You  would  certainly  arouse  discussion.  I 
think  that  five  years*  intimacy  give  me  a  right  to  better  treat- 
ment than  that,  Mrs.  Prentice.  I  simply  ask  you  to  come  in 
now,  and  let  us  have  a  clear  understanding  as  to  how  we  are 
to  stand  to  one  another  for  the  future." 

They  had   reached  the  gate  of  the  White  House.     Mrs. 

Prentice  would  have  preferred  to  have  gone  on  her  way,  feed- 

ng  her  resentment  with  the  memory  of  Hilda's  attack  upon 

her.     But  there  was  something  compelling  in  Mrs.  RedclifFe's 

quiet  insistence. 

"  I  have  no  objection,"  she  said  stiffly.  "  And  I  hope  I 
shall  not  go  out  of  the  house  without  a  full  apology  for 
the  unpardonable  language  that  Hilda  has  seen  fit  to  use  to  me." 

No  answer  was  made  to  this  suggestion,  and  they  walked  up 
the  drive  and  into  the  house  in  silence,  each  collecting  her 
thoughts  for  what  was  to  follow. 

Mrs.  Prentice  was  the  first  to  speak.  "  The  matter  is  quite 
simple,"  she  said,  the  moment  she  had  seated  herself.  "  Since 
you  have  told  Hilda — which,  I  confess,  I  was  surprised  to  hear 
— of  the — the  secret  in  your  life,  I  can  speak  plainly.  I  do  not 
wish  to  use  words  that  would  hurt  you — personally  —but,  as  a 
Churchwoman,  I  am  taught  to  regard  a  marriage  such  as  yours 
as  no  marriage  at  all,  and  I  will  not,  no,  I  will  not,  whatever  the 


DISCORD  i«5 

circumstances,  even  pretend  to  be  on  friendly  terms,  or  indeed 
on  any  terms,  with  any  one  who  has — has  broken  the  Chris- 
tian law  in  that  respect." 

"  I  should  like  to  ask  you,  Mrs.  Prentice,  if  you  are  really 
convinced  that  the  responsibility  of  punishing  me  for  my  mar- 
riage rests  upon  you  ?  "  said  Mrs.  RedclifFe. 

"  Punishing  ! "  repeated  Mrs.  Prentice,  rather  at  a  loss. 
*'  There  is  no  question  of  my  punishing  you." 

"  Then  for  what  reason  are  you  refusing  to  live  on  friendly 
terms,  or,  as  you  say,  on  any  terms,  with  me  for  the  future  ? " 

Mrs.  Prentice  hesitated  for  a  moment.  "  It  is  not  my  fault," 
she  said,  "  if  I  am  obliged  to  use  expressions  that  may  offend 
you.  The  Church  teaches,  and  I  believe,  that  any  one  living 
— living  in  that  way,  under  a — under  a  false  marriage  tie,  is 
committing  a  sin." 

"  Living  in  what  way,  Mrs.  Prentice  ?  " 

"  Well,  if  you  will  have  it,  living  with  a  man  as  your  hus- 
band who,  in  the  eyes  of  the  Church,  is  not  your  husband." 

"  But  I  was  married  in  a  church,  and  in  every  way  accord- 
ing to  the  laws  of  the  country  in  which  I  lived." 

"  There  are  priests,  I  am  well  aware,  who  will  break  any  of 
the  laws  of  the  Church  if  the  law  of  the  land  allows  them.  It 
is  quite  enough  for  me  that  the  Catholic  Church  does  forbid 
such  marriages." 

"  You  feel  so  strongly  on  the  matter  that  you  cannot  bring 
yourself  to  allow  a  woman,  with  whom  you  have  lived  in 
friendship  for  five  years,  any  mercy.  We  are  to  be  complete 
strangers  to  each  other,  and  by  your  attitude  to  me  you  are  to 
spread  my  story  and  invite  others  to  hold  aloof  from  me — from 
both  me  and  my  daughter,  who,  at  any  rate,  has  done  nothing 
wrong,  even  according  to  your  own  strict  rule." 

"  Hilda  stands  on  quite  another  plane,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice. 
"  I  should  refuse  to  have  anything  more  to  do  with  her  for 
many  reasons,  even  if  this  had  not  happened." 


i86  EXTON  MANOR 

"  There  is  no  necessity  to  bring  me  in  at  all,  mother,"  said 
Hilda.  "  Mrs.  Prentice  cordially  dislikes  me,  and  I  certainly 
have  neither  liking  nor  respect  for  her.  I  think  that  people 
who  are  always  talking  of  their  religious  views  ought  to  show 
some  small  signs  of  Christian  charity,  and  I  have  never  seen 
any  in  her." 

She  got  out  her  words  against  Mrs.  RedclifFe's  warning 
hand.  Mrs.  Prentice  looked  at  her  as  with  almost  savage 
dislike.  "  I  came  in  here  against  my  will  at  your  request," 
she  said  to  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  "  If  that  girl  is  allowed  to  speak 
to  me  in  that  way  again  I  shall  go  out  at  once." 

"  Hilda,  I  have  asked  you  to  keep  quiet,"  said  Mrs.  Red- 
clifFe.    "If  you  disobey  me  again  you  must  go  away." 

Hilda  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  withdrew  her  dress,  the 
hem  of  which  was  touching  Mrs.  Prentice's. 

"  I  will  put  it  before  you  once  more,"  said  Mrs.  RedclifFe. 
"  I  have  no  wish  to  plead  with  you,  but  for  your  own  sake, 
as  well  as  ours,  I  think  you  ought  to  be  told  something  of 
the  circumstances  of  my  marriage.  I  had  no  idea  until  I 
came  to  England  that  there  was  anything  in  the  least  irregu- 
lar in  it — that  it  was  not  perfectly  regular  in  any  country  in 
the  world.     Does  that  make  no  difFerence  ?  " 

"Perhaps  it  does  in  the  manner  of  blame  that  is  to  be 
attached  to  it,"  replied  Mrs.  Prentice.  "  Not  otherwise.  If 
you  sin  against  a  law  unwittingly,  you  still  sin  against  it." 

"  I  did  not  sin  against  the  law  of  my  country." 

"  I  mean  the  law  of  the  Church." 

"And  the  English  Church  throughout  Australia  celebrates 
without  question  such  marriages  as  mine." 

"It  may  have  done  twenty  years  ago.  I  doubt  whether  it 
would  now.  But  it  makes  no  difFerence.  I  stand,  as  I  said 
before,  by  the  undoubted  law  of  the  Catholic  Church." 

*' And  none  of  the  circumstances  I  have  mentioned  afford 
you  a  loophole,  not  for  altering  your  convictions — I  would 


DISCORD  187 

not  ask  you  to  do  that — but  for  treating  me  as  not  quite 
outside  the  social  pale.  Because,  Mrs.  Prentice,  that  is  what 
you  are  proposing  to  do.  You  are  going  to  ignore  every  cir- 
cumstance that  would  tell  in  my  favour,  and  treat  me  just  as 
you  would  an  unfortunate  woman  who  might  come  and  live 
here,  let  us  say,  with  another  woman's  husband." 

"  In  my  view  that  is  what  it  comes  to,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice. 
"  I  cannot  palter  with  my  beliefs.  A  union  with  a  deceased 
wife's  sister  is  either  a  marriage,  or  it  is  not.  I  hold  that  it  is 
not,  and  no  circumstances  can  make  it  so." 

"  Very  well,  then,  we  will  leave  that  point.  And  now  will 
you  tell  me  what  you  would  have  me  to  do  ? " 

"  Do  ?  "  echoed  Mrs.  Prentice.  "  I  do  not  quite  under- 
stand you." 

"  Twenty  years  ago  I  committed — unknowingly,  as  I  have 
told  you — what  you  call  a  sin.  Is  my  punishment  to  last  for 
ever  ? " 

"You  repeat  the  word  punishment,  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  And 
I  repeat  that  I  should  not  have  the  audacity  to  take  it  upon 
myself  to  punish  you.  Besides,  I  should  say  that  if  you  did 
what  you  did  unknowingly — which  I  should  have  hardly 
thought  possible " 

"  You  will  not  refuse  to  believe,  I  hope,  that  I  am  telling 
you  the  truth  when  I  say  I  did  not  know  ?  " 

*'  No,  I  accept  what  you  say.  And  what  I  mean  is  that  I 
don't  think  actual  blame  would  attach  to  you  until  you  did 
know.  Then  the  union  in  my  view — and  the  Church's  view 
— would  become  a  sin." 

"  And  it  is  because  of  that  sin  that  you  decide  that  you 
must  for  the  future  hold  aloof  from  me  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I  do  regard  it  as  a  sin." 

"  But  my  husband  has  been  dead  twenty  years,  Mrs.  Pren- 
tice, and  he  was  dead  when  I  first  discovered  that  in  some 
respects  my  marriage  was  irregular." 


k 


i88  EXTON  MANOR 

Mrs.  Prentice  was  dumb. 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  went  on  in  her  quiet  voice.  "  So  you  see,** 
she  said,  "that  unless  you  are  anxious  to  punish  "me  for  doing 
many  years  ago  what  you  say,  under  the  circumstances  of  my 
ignorance,  I  could  not  be  blamed  for — and  you  deny  that  you 
wish  to  punish  me — you  are  holding  aloof  from  me  for — well, 
perhaps  you  will  tell  me  for  what." 

Mrs.  Prentice  grew  flustered.  "You  may  better  me  in 
argument,"  she  said,  **  but  I  know  all  the  same  that  I  am 
right,  and  I  should  be  false  to  my  convictions  if  I  acted 
otherwise." 

"  Otherwise  than  how  ?  " 

"  Than  by  showing  that,  however  much  I  regret  the  neces- 
sity, I  cannot  hold  company  with  those  who  break  laws  that 
I  hold  to  be  sacred,  and  defend  themselves  for  breaking  them. 
Yes,  that  is  the  point ;  I  see  it  now.  You  defend  your  mar- 
riage. Your  eyes  have  been  opened  to  the  truth  and  you  do 
not  repent.  You  are  undoubtedly  living  in  a  state  of  sin 
until  you  do.  If  your  husband  were  alive  you  would  still  be 
living  with  him.     The  fact  of  his  death  makes  no  difference." 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  rose,  her  face  a  deep  red.  "  We  need  say 
no  more,"  she  began;  but  Hilda  broke  in,  rising  too  — 

"  Let  her  go,  mother ! "  she  cried.  "  Her  hypocrisy  is 
beyond  bearing.  It  makes  me  feel  positively  sick.  You  have 
treated  her  with  the  most  splendid  patience  and  forbearance, 
and  have  shown  her  plainly  that  she  has  no  excuse  even  from 
her  own  point  of  view.  She  hates  you  because  you  are  good 
and  she  is  not.  She  only  wants  an  excuse  for  her  wicked 
spite.  She  is  glad — you  can  see  it  in  her  face — that  she  has 
something  to  use  against  you.  Let  her  go !  It  is  you  who 
cannot  have  anything  more  to  do  with  her.  You  can't  live 
any  longer  in  friendship  with  a  mean  and  contemptible  woman 
like  that.     She  is  too  far  beneath  you." 

She  poured  forth  her  words  in  a  torrent  of  scorn  and  indig- 


DISCORD  189 

nation.  Her  mother  made  no  effort  to  stop  her.  Mrs.  Pren- 
tice, rising  with  the  others,  confronted  her  with  a  furious 
face,  and  tried  once  or  twice  to  break  in  on  her,  but  her  voice 
was  borne  down  by  the  girl's  anger. 

"This  is  what  I  let  myself  in  for,"  cried  Mrs.  Prentice. 
"  This  girl — the  daughter  of  an  unholy  alliance " 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  laid  a  hand  on  her  arm.  "  Stop  ! "  she  said. 
"  Say  no  more.  You  shall  have  your  way ;  we  will  not  meet 
again  as  friends.  Hilda  is  right.  You  have  shown  your 
enmity  towards  me,  and  the  Christianity  which  is  so  much 
on  your  lips  is  worthless.  You  think  wickedly  and  you  speak 
wickedly.  You  may  go  now ;  and  I  will  have  nothing  more 
to  do  with  you." 

"  That  indeed  you  won't,"  returned  Mrs.  Prentice,  burst- 
ing with  spite  and  preparing  for  her  departure.  "  And  I  shall 
take  very  good  care  that  others  whom  you  would  give  your 
ears  to  be  friends  with  shall  not  have  anything  to  do 
with  you.  It  is  a  disgrace  that  you  should  be  living  in  the 
place." 

Hilda  took  a  step  forward.  "  If  you  don't  go  at  once  I 
will  turn  you  out,"  she  said.  "  You  shall  not  speak  to  my 
mother  in  that  way.  And  you  may  tell  your  new  friend  that 
she  did  a  very  wicked  thing  when  she  gave  a  woman  like  you 
a  weapon  to  use  against  my  mother." 

Mrs.  Prentice  was  at  the  door.  *'  I  shall  certainly  tell 
Lady  Wrotham  all  about  your  outrageous  behaviour,"  she 
said.  "  And  I  shall  do  my  best  to  get  her  to  turn  you  out  of 
the  place.  It  is  intolerable  that  you  should  be  living  here 
beside  respectable  and  God-fearing  people." 

Hilda,  who  had  almost  lost  control  of  herself,  would  have 
followed  her  with  another  taunt,  but  Mrs.  RedclifFe  restrained 
her,  and  she  threw  herself  into  her  mother's  arms  and  burst 
into  a  passion  of  tears. 

Mrs.  RedclifFe,  white  to  the  roots  of  her  hair,  soothed  her 


I90  EXTON  MANOR 

as  well  as  she  was  able,  sinking  into  a  chair,  for  she  was 
hardly  able  to  stand. 

"  Oh,  how  hateful ! "  cried  the  girl.  "  Mother,  we  must 
go  away.  We  can't  stay  here  to  have  these  things  said 
against  us." 

"No,  we  will  not  go  away,"  said  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  "No 
one  will  behave  like  that  again.  The  worst  is  over;  but  oh, 
it  was  very  hard  to  bear." 

They  grew  calmer,  comforting  one  another,  and  presently 
went  about  their  duties  in  the  pleasant  house  which  had  been 
such  a  happy  home  to  them  for  the  past  five  years,  but  had 
now  become  a  place  from  which  they  would  both  willingly 
have  flown  if  they  could  have  done  so  without  cowardice. 

And  Mrs.  Prentice  walked  homewards,  her  knees  trembling 
under  her,  alternately  exulting  and  afraid. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

MRS.    PRENTICE    TASTES    SUCCESS 

Mrs.  Prentice  possessed,  although  she  did  not  often  allow 
it  to  appear,  a  wholesome  dread  of  her  husband.  The  Vicar, 
underneath  the  crust  of  his  rigid  beliefs,  was  an  easy-going 
man,  and  had  solved  the  problem  of  living  in  a  not  altogether 
ideal  companionship  by  allowing  his  wife  more  room  in  which 
to  exercise  her  less  agreeable  characteristics  than  was  good 
for  her.  But  he  had  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  a  solid  lump 
of  fundamental  Christianity,  and  was  sometimes  shaken  out 
of  his  wonted  tolerance  towards  her,  to  express  himself  for- 
cibly on  her  crying  lack  of  charity.  Now  it  would  not  be  pos- 
sible for  any  one  to  follow  as  doggedly  as  Mrs.  Prentice  did 
the  letter  of  religion,  and  to  escape  altogether  the  calls  of 
the  spirit,  unless  actuated  by  the  most  deadly  hypocrisy ;  and 
Mrs.  Prentice  was  not  a  conscious  hypocrite.  Therefore 
there  was  something  in  her  which  her  husband's  occasional 
rebukes  could  affect.  You  may  call  it  conscience  or  only 
vanity,  but  the  fact  remains  that  they  caused  her  discomfort 
enough  to  make  her  dislike  and  dread  them. 

As  she  walked  down  to  the  village  from  the  White  House, 
convinced  as  she  was  that  she  had  acted  only  uprightly,  and 
had  received  abominable  treatment  for  righteousness*  sake, 
she  was  yet  aware  that  whatever  story  she  told  her  husband 
of  what  had  passed  between  her  and  the  RedclifFes,  he  would 
look  at  her,  his  face  growing  stern,  amazed,  indignant,  and 
then  he  would  break  out  upon  her  and  rout  her  self-com- 
placency, driving  her  out  of  the  room  in  angry  tears,  perhaps, 
as  had  happened  before.  And,  although  she  had  done  her 
duty — much  as  it  had  pained  her — she  knew  that  she  would 
not  be  able  to  stand  up  against  his  wrath. 

191 


192  EXTON  MANOR 

Really,  at  the  present  moment  she  could  not  go  through 
with  it.  Her  knees  knocked  under  her  and  she  felt  faint 
and  unstrung — though  still  conscious  of  rectitude.  She  could 
hardly  summon  up  enough  fortitude  to  carry  her  over  the 
short  mile  which  lay  between  the  White  House  and  the 
vicarage,  with  the  populous  village  in  between. 

A  recreating  thought  came  to  her.  She  would  call  at  the 
Abbey  on  her  way  home  and  see  Lady  Wrotham.  She  would 
tell  her  patroness  of  what  she  had  said  and  of  what  had  been 
said  to  her.  She  must  certainly  put  matters  on  a  footing 
there  some  time,  and  if  she  did  it  before  she  saw  her  husband, 
she  might  be  fortified  by  the  great  lady's  approval  and 
alliance  against  her  husband's  displeasure.  At  any  rate  she 
would  be  offered  a  chair,  and  she  badly  wanted  a  chair  at  the 
moment. 

She  was  admitted  at  once  to  Lady  Wrotham's  presence  and 
tottered  to  a  seat. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Prentice  !  "  cried  Lady  Wrotham.  "  You  are 
ill.     Some  brandy.  Hooker,  quickly  !  " 

"  If  I  might  have  a  glass  of  port  wine  and  a  biscuit,"  said 
Mrs.  Prentice  faintly.     "  Brandy  flies  to  my  head." 

"  Oh,  yes.  Port  wine  and  a  biscuit.  Hooker,  quickly  ! 
Pray  what  is  the  matter,  Mrs.  Prentice  ?  But  do  not  talk. 
Tell  me  afterwards.  Lean  your  head  back.  Wait,  I  will  put 
a  cushion  behind  you."^ 

But  Mrs.  Prentice  was  already  recovering,  and  the  port 
wine  which  she  sipped  and  the  biscuits  at  which  she  nibbled 
soon  completed  the  process.  When  she  had  put  the  empty 
glass  back  on  to  the  tray  beside  her  she  was  herself  once 
more. 

"  I  am  sure  you  must  be  surprised  at  my  coming  in  in  this 
way,  Lady  Wrotham,"  she  said.  "  And  I  am  sure  I  did  not 
mean  to  alarm  you.     I  was  just  a  little  overwrought." 

Ladv  Wrotham  still   looked  alarmed.     She  was  a  different 


MRS.  PRENTICE  TASTES  SUCCESS  193 

being,  motherly,  solicitous,  from  the  autocratic  dame  that 
Mrs.  Prentice  had  hitherto  had  to  deal  with,  and  that  lady 
experienced  a  sense  of  comfortable  gratitude  as  she  put  down 
her  glass  and  prepared  to  tell  her  story. 

"The  fact  is,"  she  said,  "that  I  have  just  gone  through  a 
most  trying  half-hour  and  it  has  greatly  upset  me." 

"  I  can  see  that,"  said  Lady  Wrotham.  "  Please  tell  me 
about  it  if  you  feel  yourself  able  to  do  so." 

"  Quite  able  now,  thank  you,"  returned  Mrs.  Prentice. 
"  1  have  been  treated  in  the  most  outrageous  way  by  Mrs. 
RedclifFe  and  her  daughter.  I  could  not  have  believed  such 
unpleasantness  as  I  have  had  to  go  through  could  have 
existed." 

Lady  Wrotham's  face  settled  into  a  slightly  harder  expres- 
sion. "I  hope,"  she  said,  "  that  the  unpleasantness  has  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  circumstances  of  Mrs.  RedclifFe's  mar- 
riage, of  which  I  told  you  in  confidence." 

"Yes,  it  had.  But,  Lady  Wrotham,  pray  do  not  blame 
me  before  you  have  heard  what  has  passed.  I  assure  you 
that  I  would  never  have  said  a  word,  not  a  single  word,  either 
to  Mrs.  RedclifFe  or  any  one  else,  if  I  had  not  been  attacked 
in  the  most  unmannerly  way  by — by  the  girl — and  in  the 
open  road,  where  anybody  might  have  been  passing  and  heard 
what  happened." 

"  The  girl  !     But  how  did  she  attack  you  ?  " 

"  She  stopped  me  in  the  road,  as  I  say,  as  I  was  going  up 
the  hill,  and  first  of  all  charged  me  with  cutting  her,  as  she 
expressed  it." 

"  Well,  had  you  cut  her  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not.  But  I  confess  that  I  should  not  have 
stopped  to  speak  to  her  owing  to  what  occurred  yesterday. 
I  was  annoyed,  I  own,  I  think  justly  annoyed,  and  I  did  not 
feel  inclined  to  take  the  trouble  to  hide  it." 

"  What  did  occur  yesterday  ?  " 


194 


EXTON  MANOR 


*'  I  did  not  know,  when  Lord  Wrotham  announced  his  in- 
tention of  going  up  to  the  Fisheries  with  Mr.  Browne,  that 
Mrs.  and  Miss  RedclifFe  were  to  be  of  the  party." 

"  I  did  not  know  either,"  Lady  Wrotham  interrupted  her 
grimly  ;  "  but  from  what  you  have  told  me,  I  am  not  sur- 
prised to  hear  it." 

"  Well,  I  confess  I  was  surprised.  I  met  them  coming 
back  through  the  park.  Mr.  Browne  was  driving  them  in 
his  trap,  with  Mrs.  RedclifFe  sitting  by  him  in  front,  and  Lord 
Wrotham  and  the  girl  together  on  the  back  seat." 

*'  That  is  where  I  should  have  expected  them  to  be,"  in- 
terrupted Lady  Wrotham  again. 

"  I  turned  round  to  look  at  them  as  I  passed,  and  the  girl 
nudged  Lord  Wrotham  rudely  and  burst  out  laughing  at  me, 
without  the  slightest  attempt  to  conceal  her  rudeness." 

''  Pretty  manners  !  "  commented  Lady  Wrotham.  "  Did 
my  son  laugh  too  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  His  lordship  looked  quite  shocked  at  her  be- 
haviour. Well,  there  it  was.  You  can  hardly  be  surprised. 
Lady  Wrotham,  that  I  should  not  have  felt  inclined  to  be  ex- 
actly friendly  when  I  met  her  this  morning." 

"  No.  If  you  have  made  no  mistake  in  her  attitude  to  you, 
it  was  certainly,  as  you  say,  outrageous.  But  why  should  she 
behave  like  that  to  you  ?     Why  should  she  laugh  ?  " 

"I  think  it  was  pretty  plain.  She  knew  quite  well  that  I 
knew  she  was  trying  to  got  hold  of  Lord  Wrotham — if  I  may 
use  the  expression — and  her  laugh  was  evidently  one  of 
triumph  over  me.  I  have  no  doubt  that  she  had  said  some- 
thing about  me  to  Lord  Wrotham,  and  had  some  understand- 
ing with  him  on  the  subject." 

"  I  can  hardly  understand  a  respectably  brought  up  girl 
behaving  in  that  way.     Still,  if  you  say  so " 

"  Oh,  that  is  nothing  to  what  happened  this  morning.  I 
assure  you,  Lady  Wrotham,  that  I  really  thought   once  or 


MRS.  PRENTICE  TASTES  SUCCESS  195 

tvvice  that  she  was  about  to  offer  me  bodily  violence.  She  so 
lost  control  of  herself  that  nothing  was  too  bad  for  her  to  say. 
She  showed  her  essentially  vulgar  nature  in  a  way  that  was 
positively  shocking." 

"  Did  she  ?  Well,  how  was  the  subject  of  Mrs.  RedclifFe's 
marriage  introduced  ?  Does  the  girl  know  of  the  circum- 
stances ?  " 

"  To  my  surprise  I  found  that  she  does.  I  can  only 
suppose  that  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  seeing  that  it  was  bound  to  come 
out,  told  her,  for  I  am  pretty  certain  she  knew  nothing 
before." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"She  stormed  at  me  like  a — like  a  tiger  for — well,  as  far 
as  I  can  remember,  for  I  was  so  taken  aback  that  I  hardly 
knew  exactly  what  she  did  say — for — for " 

"  For  telling  people  her  mother's  story  ?  " 

"  No,  I  had  not  done  that.  Pray  believe  me,  Lady  Wro- 
tham,  I  had  told  my  husband,  but  had  not  breathed  a  word  to 
another  soul — and  I  am  sure  he  would  not  have  done  so." 

"  Well,  then,  for  what  ?  " 

"  For  knowing  it  myself,  I  suppose.  That  is  the  only 
thing  I  can  think  of.  She  was  so  furious  at  my  knowing  it 
that  she  could  hardly  contain  herself." 

"  But  how  did  she  know  that  you  knew  it,  if  you  had  told 
no  one  ?  " 

"  I  can  only  suppose  that  Lord  Wrotham  had  said  some- 
thing yesterday." 

"  Oh,  no,  he  would  not  have  done  that." 

"I  do  not  mean,  of  course,  that  he  told  her,  or  Mrs. 
RedclifFe,  in  so  many  words,  but  he  may  have  mentioned 
that  you  knew  of  them  when  you  were  in  Australia.  And 
they  could  put  two  and  two  together." 

"  That  is  quite  possible.  But  how  should  they  connect 
you  with  the  matter  ?  " 


196  £XTON  MANOR 

"  I — I  don't  know.  But  Mrs.  RedclifFe  took  it  for  granted 
that  you  had  told  me,  and  I  did  not  contradict  her." 

"  Was  Mrs.  RedclifFe  with  the  girl  when  she  spoke  to 
you  ?  " 

"  No.  She  came  down  the  road  immediately  afterwards, 
and  insisted  upon  my  going  into  the  house,  where  she  imme- 
diately set  upon  me  and  tried  her  utmost  to  get  me  to  say  that 
I  approved  of  the  circumstances  of  her  marriage.  I  could 
not  and  would  not  say  it,  Lady  Wrotham.  I  do  not  approve 
of  such  so-called  marriages,  and  nothing  would  induce  me, 
not  death  or  martyrdom,  to  contract  one  myself." 

"  She  wanted  you  to  hold  your  tongue,  I  suppose,"  said 
Lady  Wrotham.  "And  I  do  not  altogether  wonder  at  it. 
If  the  circumstances  of  her  marriage  were  not  known  before, 
she  would  naturally  be  annoyed  at  their  becoming  known.  I 
cannot  think  that  you  have  behaved  altogether  wisely  in  the 
matter,  Mrs.  Prentice.  Something  must  have  been  said  or 
done  to  connect  you  in  her  mind  with  what  she  very  likely 
may  have  gathered  that  I  know.  You  betrayed  no  reticence 
at  all  in  alluding  to  the  matter  before  my  son  yesterday.  I 
must  judge  a  little  by  that." 

"Oh,  Lady  Wrotham,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice,  almost  in 
tears.     "  Indeed  I  have  said  nothing — nothing  at  all." 

"  Well,  the  cat  is  out  of  the  bag  now,  at  any  rate,  and  per- 
haps it  is  useless  to  inquire  further  how  it  got  out.  Then 
what  happened  to  put  you  in  the  state  in  which  you  came 
here  ?  " 

Mrs.  Prentice  hastened  to  get  to  safer  ground.  "  Mrs. 
RedclifFe  talked  quietly  at  first,"  she  said.  "  I  will  do  her 
that  justice.  She  did  her  best,  as  I  say,  to  defend  herself,  but 
she  could  not  move  me.  When  she  found  that,  she  threw 
ofF  the  mask  completely,  and  became  as  violent  and  abusive 
as  her  daughter  had  been  all  along.  The  girl  insulted  me 
most  grossly,  and  she  made  no  attempt  to  stop  her,  except  at 


MRS.  PRENTICE  TASTES  SUCCESS  197 

first.  She  denounced  me  as  a  wicked  and  irreligious  woman 
— those  were  her  very  words — not  for  disclosing  her  secret, 
which  she  could  not  accuse  me  of,  but  for  sticking  to  my 
convictions.  I  told  her  that  whatever  might  be  the  case  In 
Australia,  marriage  with  a  deceased  wife's  sister  was  not 
recognized  either  by  the  Church  or  by  the  law  in  this 
country." 

"  That  was  surely  a  little  strong  to  a  woman  in  her 
position." 

"  Oh,  I  did  not  put  it  in  that  way,  of  course.  I  tried  to 
wrap  it  up  as  much  as  possible,  consistently  with  keeping  to 
my  principles.  But  I  assure  you  that  neither  she  nor  her 
daughter  made  the  slightest  attempt  to  wrap  up  anything  that 
they  saw  fit  to  say  to  me.  Any  one  would  have  thought  that 
it  was  I  who  was  in  the  equivocal  position  and  not  Mrs. 
RedclifFe.  You  could  hardly  believe  the  things  that  I  was 
forced  to  listen  to.  It  put  me  all  of  a  tremble,  as  you  saw. 
And  it  was  not  only  me  that  was  attacked.  The  girl,  who 
was  almost  foaming  at  the  mouth  with  anger  and  spite,  shouted 
out  after  me,  when  at  last  I  succeeded  in  getting  away,  a 
message  to  be  given  to  you  which  I  should  not  soil  my  lips  by 
repeating." 

"  Oh,  indeed  !     So  I  was  brought  into  it,  was  I  ?  " 

"  Most  impertinently.  Lady  Wrotham.  I  should  not  think 
of  offending  you  by  repeating  what  was  said." 

"  Nevertheless  I  should  like  to  hear  it.  I  could  hardly  be 
offended  with  you  for  whatever  it  was." 

Mrs.  Prentice  hesitated.  She  had,  in  truth,  forgotten  exactly 
what  it  was  that  had  been  said,  but  made  up  for  her  lapse  of 
memory  by  a  liberal  draft  on  her  imagination. 

"I  was  to  tell  you,"  she  said,  "that  you  were  no  better 
than  I  was." 

"  That  is  pleasant  hearing,"  said  Lady  Wrotham,  uncon* 
scious  of  irony.     *'  Was  there  anything  else  f  " 


198  EXTON  MANOR 

"  Oh,  yes.  More  impertinence,  but  I  cannot  remember  the 
exact  words.  I  was  too  anxious  to  get  away,  as  I  felt  I  could 
not  go  through  any  more,  but  it  was  to  the  effect  that  neither 
she — Miss  Redcliffe — nor  her  mother  wished  to  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  you.     You  must  forgive  me  for  repeating  it." 

"  Oh,  certainly.  And  I  shall  try  to  oblige  them.  Well, 
of  course,  I  can  feel  to  a  certain  extent  for  a  woman  in  Mrs. 
RedcIifFe's  circumstances,  but  she  seems  to  have  behaved  with 
great  lack  of  dignity,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  and  whatever 
sympathy  one  might  have  felt  if  she  had  behaved  herself, 
is  largely  done  away  with  by  what  you  tell  me.  I  make 
nothing,  of  course,  of  the  rudeness  to  me,  personally.  I  shall 
not  think  twice  about  it." 

"And  the  rudeness  of  both  of  them  to  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Prentice,  "  was  past  all  bearing.  I  am  not  a  nervous  woman, 
but  you  saw.  Lady  Wrotham,  the  state  I  was  in  when  I  came 
here,  and,  upon  my  word,  I  don't  think  I  could  have  walked 
another  step." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  you  could.  Did  Mrs.  Redcliffe  herself 
charge  you  with  any  kind  messages  to  me,  or  was  it  only  the 
girl  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Redcliffe  did  say  something.  But  I  cannot  remem- 
ber what  it  was." 

"  You  need  not  be  afraid  of  telling  me  what  it  was.  I  shall 
try  to  bear  it." 

"  She  said — no,  I  cannot  remember.  By  that  time  I  was  so 
flustered  that — but  she  certainly  made  no  attempt  to  restrain 
the  girl  in  her  impudence.  She  more  or  less  backed  her  up  in 
what  she  said." 

"Well,  it  is  all  very  painful.     But,  at  any  rate,  you  have 
done  no  wrong,  Mrs.  Prentice.     You  may  be  quite  at  ease 
about  that.     You  rebuked  the  girl  I  suppose  for  what  she  said^ 
— about  me,  I  mean — not  that  it  matters,  of  course." 

"  Indeed  I  did,  Lady  Wrotham.     I  was  most  indignant. 


MRS.  PRENTICE  TASTES  SUCCESS  199 

Just  as  much  on  your  behalf  as  on  my  own.  It  is  only  your 
kindness  that  has  enabled  me  to  get  over  the  scene.  I  shall 
hope  never  to  have  to  go  through  such  another." 

"  I  hope  you  never  may.  If  you  have  lost  a  friend  in  Mrs. 
RedcIifFe,  you  have  gained  one  in  me.  I  hope  the  exchange 
will  not  be  altogether  to  your  disadvantage." 

Mrs.  Prentice  wriggled  with  amiability  and  gratitude,  but 
found  no  coherent  words  to  express  her  sense  of  obligation. 

"  We  must  work  together  for  the  good  of  the  people  here," 
pursued  Lady  Wrotham.  "  I  am  sure  you  will  support  me  in 
my  efforts  to  enlighten  them.  I  don't  wish  you  to  go  against 
your  husband,  Mrs.  Prentice.  I  need  scarcely  say  that.  At 
the  same  time,  I  am  determined  to  oppose  him  where  I  think 
he  is  wrong,  and  I  would  rather  have  you  on  my  side  than  as 
an  enenly." 

Mrs.  Prentice  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  being  at  enmity 
with  Lady  Wrotham — especially  now  that  she  was  getting  on 
so  well.  She  waited  for  further  enlightenment  as  to  how  she 
was  expected  to  be  on  Lady  Wrotham's  side  in  opposing  her 
husband,  without  going  against  him. 

"  You  could  do  so  much,"  pursued  her  ladyship,  "  to  get 
him  to  see  these  things  in  the  proper  light.  A  wife  can  al- 
ways do  so  much.  It  would  be  a  grievous  thing  for  me  to 
have  to  complain  to  the  bishop  about  what  has  been  going 
on  here,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  do  so,  although  I  told  him  I 
would,  until  all  other  means  have  been  tried.  I  cannot  think 
that  you  will  not  do  all  that  you  can." 

Mrs.  Prentice  swallowed  the  dose.  "  I  will,"  she  said. 
"  Perhaps  it  is  true  that  we  have  been  going  too  fast," 

"  The  mistake  does  not  lie  in  going  too  fast  along  the  path 
to  Rome,  Mrs.  Prentice,  but  in  going  at  all.  You  do  not  see 
as  clearly  yet  as  I  should  like.  I  don't  suppose  it  is  your 
fault.  Of  course  there  is  religion,  a  measure  of  true  religion, 
even  mixed  up  with  the  errors  of  the  High  Church  party.     I 


20O  EXTON  MANOR 

am  a  broad-minded  woman,  and  I  have  never  denied  it,  as 
some  do.  And  perhaps  that  is  the  only  religion  you  have  had 
an  opportunity  of  learning.  I  do  not  blame  you.  But  oh, 
my  dear  Mrs.  Prentice,  if  you  only  knew  the  comfort  and 
satisfaction  to  be  got  out  of  the  purer,  simpler  form  of  belief ! 
It  has  upheld  me  in  many  trials  and  many  dark  hours.  I  can 
speak  from  plentiful  experience.  I  would  not  be  without  my 
simple  faith,  were  it  ever  so.  I  have  proved  it.  Let  me  give 
you  some  papers,  and  a  little  book.  I  do  not  wish  to  pros- 
elytize, but  I  do  wish  to  turn  those  whose  minds  are  open  to 
good  influences  from  the  wrong  path  into  the  right  one.  You 
cannot  refuse  to  test  the  question.  I  do  not  ask  more.  Read 
with  an  open,  prayerful  mind,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  you 
will  see  your  way." 

Lady  Wrotham  took  a  small  cloth-bound  book  and  a  few 
selected  tracts  from  a  pile  of  religious  ammunition  that  lay 
ready  at  her  elbow,  and  pressed  them  on  her  visitor.  Mrs. 
Prentice  was  honestly  moved  by  her  appeal.  Perhaps  there 
might  be  something  in  it  after  all.  Her  grazed  spirit  craved 
for  comfort;  and  when  a  lady  of  such  high  birth  was  not 
afraid  to  take  what  presented  itself  to  her  as  the  unpopular 
side,  she  herself  would  probably  not  lose  much  if  she  came 
to  be  convinced  that  she  had  hitherto  been  on  the  wrong 
tack. 

"  Thank  you  very  much  for  your  kind  interest  in  me.  Lady 
Wrotham,"  she  said  gratefully.  *'  I  will  certainly  think  over 
the  question  most  carefully.  It  is  true  that  I  have  been 
brought  up  as  a  Churchwoman  with  rather  high  views,  but  I 
am  not  infallible,  and  my  views  may  have  been  mistaken." 

"  I  think  you  will  find  that  it  is  so,"  said  Lady  Wrotham. 
"  I  am  sure  you  will,  if  you  do  not  shut  up  your  mind  against 
the  truth.  I  will  pray  for  you,  and  the  prayers  of  an  old 
woman  who  perhaps  has  not  very  long  to  live,  and  must 
sooner  or  later  stand  before  her  Maker,  even  though  stripped 


MRS.  PRENTICE  TASTES  SUCCESS  201 

of  whatever  advantages  her  position  may  have  given  her  in  this 
world,  may  be  worth  having.     One  can  never  tell." 

iMrs.  Prentice  murmured  something  to  the  effect  that  Lady 
Wrotham's  petitions  must  undoubtedly  carry  considerable 
weight,  and  took  her  leave,  hugging  her  bundle  of  literature. 
As  she  walked  away  from  the  Abbey  she  found  herself  in  a 
far  more  equable  frame  of  mind  than  she  had  been  when  she 
arrived  there,  and  felt  genuinely  grateful  to  Lady  Wrotham 
for  her  share  in  bringing  about  this  improvement.  She  was 
quite  honestly  ready  to  find  some  sort  of  hitherto  unexpected 
magic  in  militant  Protestantism,  and  experienced  a  pleasant 
glow  in  anticipating  her  own  possible  conversion  to  that  form 
of  belief.  She  was  determined,  at  all  events,  to  look  into  it 
with  what  she  called  an  open  mind,  and  congratulated  herself 
not  a  little  upon  a  heart  so  unbound  by  prejudice  as  to  be  ready 
to  follow  the  call  of  the  spirit — at  all  costs. 

Well,  she  had  put  a  spoke  in  Mrs.  RedclifFe's  wheel.  That 
lady  would  perhaps  be  sorry  that  she  had  not  addressed  her 
with  rather  more  deference  when  she  came  to  think  over  it, 
and  found  that  by  her  own  action  she  had  cut  herself  off  from 
the  sweets  of  such  high  society  as  were  now  being  enjoyed  in 
Exton.  It  was  true  that  Lady  Wrotham,  by  her  kindness  and 
advocacy  of  Mrs.  Prentice's  cause,  had  withdrawn  most  of  the 
sting  left  by  the  memory  of  what  had  passed  at  the  White 
House.  Perhaps  it  might  now  be  possible  to  enjoy  the 
superiority  that  would  be  gained  by  applying  the  spirit  of  for- 
giveness and  pity  to  Mrs.  Redcliffe.  That  spirit  would  cer- 
tainly stand  her  in  good  stead  in  the  coming  interview  with 
her  husband.  But  no.  There  was  too  much  at  stake. 
Though  the  sting  had  been  drawn  most  of  the  irritation  still 
remained.  Mrs.  Redcliffe  must  be  brought  low  and  kept  low. 
Virtuous  indignation  was  still  the  card  to  play,  and  if  she  had 
to  play  it  against  her  husband  as  well  as  against  Mrs.  Redcliffe, 
the    partnership    of    herself    and    Lady    Wrotham    in    the 


202  EXTON  MANOR 

game  would  still  be  strong  enough  to  make  the  victory 
assured. 

Such,  in  rough  paraphrase,  were  the  thoughts  that  passed 
through  Mrs.  Prentice's  mind  as  she  made  her  way  home- 
wards, though  not  perhaps  in  a  form  that  she  would  either 
have  accepted  or  recognized.  She  sought  her  husband  the 
moment  she  got  into  the  house,  judging  that  it  would  be  bet- 
ter to  go  through  her  ordeal  at  once  rather  than  wait  until  the 
wine  of  Lady  Wrotham's  approval  had  less  power  to  buoy 
her  up. 

"  William,"  she  said,  "  I  dare  say  you  will  blame  me,  but  I 
cannot  help  it.  I  feel  that  I  have  acted  rightly,  and  that  must 
sustain  me." 

The  Vicar  looked  at  her  quizzically,  marking  the  book  and 
papers  she  held  in  her  hand.  "  I  hope  it  will,"  he  said.  "  It 
is  well  to  have  the  support  of  one's  own  conscience.  I  sup- 
pose you  have  undertaken  to  help  Lady  Wrotham  in  her  en- 
deavours to  upset  my  influence  here  ?  " 

"Indeed,  I  have  done  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Mrs.  Pren- 
tice indignantly.  "Though  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  you  are 
not  doing  Lady  Wrotham  an  injustice  in  your  mind.  She  is 
at  heart  a  truly  religious  woman,  though  she  does  not  believe 
in  all  the  excrescences  that  have  grown  up  round  the  Chris- 
tian Faith." 

"  Oh,  it  has  come  to  that,  has  it  ?  "  remarked  the  Vicar 
dryly.  "The  doctrines  and  practices  which  the  Church  has 
taught  since  the  earliest  times  are  excrescences,  I  should  like 
to  have  seen  your  face,  Agatha,  if  any  one  had  ventured  to 
mike  that  assertion  a  week  ago." 

"You  may  sneer  at  me  if  you  like,  William,  though  I 
thii^k  sneers  are  hardly  becoming  to  a  Christian.  But  even 
you  will  hardly  deny  that  the  tree  is  known  by  its  fruit,  and 
that  " 

"  No,  I  do  not  deny  that,"  interrupted  the  Vicar.     "  If  you 


MRS.  PRENTICE  TASTES  SUCCESS  203 

can  show  better  fruit  by  forsaking  the  beliefs  which  you  have 
held,  perhaps  even  more  strongly  than  I,  and  going  over  to 
those  which  Lady  Wrotham  holds,  by  all  means  do  so.  If 
that  is  what  you  have  to  tell  me  I  would  rather  not  say  any- 
thing more  about  it — at  present,"  and  he  made  as  if  to  return 
to  his  writing. 

"  That  is  not  what  I  have  to  tell  you,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice, 
laying  down  her  papers  on  the  table  at  her  elbow.  "  It  is 
about  this  unfortunate  discovery  that  has  been  made  about 
Mrs.  Redcliffe.  Lady  Wrotham  agrees  with  me  that  it  can- 
not possibly  go  on." 

The  Vicar's  calm  and  somewhat  contemptuous  attitude  dis- 
appeared. His  face  became  dark.  "  What  cannot  possibly  go 
on  ?  "  he  asked  impatiently.  "  Have  you  and  Lady  Wrotham 
been  consulting  together  as  to  how  that  poor  lady's  life  can  be 
made  a  burden  to  her,  now  that  her  secret  has  been  wormed 
out  ?  A  pretty  display  of  the  Christian  spirit  that  you  talk 
about,  upon  my  word  !  " 

"  Really,  William,  you  are  very  foolish.  And  why  you 
should  constitute  yourself  Mrs.  RedclifFe's  champion  when 
she  has  certainly  broken  a  law  that  you  profess  to  believe  in, 
and  get  angry  whenever  her  name  is  mentioned,  passes  my 
comprehension." 

"  Does  it  ?  Then  I  can't  say  much  for  your  comprehen- 
sion. Here  is  a  woman  with  whom  we  have  lived  for  the  last 
five  years  on  terms  of  intimate  friendship.  She  is  a  woman 
of  the  most  admirable  character,  and  her  life  here  has  been  a 
lesson  to  all  of  us.  The  more  one  knows  her  the  more  one 
finds  to  respect  and  admire.  There  is  no  one  of  whom  I 
have  a  higher  opinion.  She  has  been  a  real  help  in  every- 
thing that  we  try  to  do  here  for  the  good  of  the  people ;  and 
now " 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you  in  that,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Pren- 
tice.    "She    is    not    a   good    Churchwoman — naturally,   she 


204  EXTON  MANOR 

couldn't  be,  under  the  circumstances — and  it  was  only  the 
other  day  that  she  went  directly  against  your  teaching  in  the 
proper  observance  of  Lent." 

"  One  of  the  things  that  I  thought  Lady  Wrotham  had  per- 
suaded you  to  regard  as  excrescences.  You  know  perfectly 
well  that  Lady  Wrotham,  with  her  peculiar  views,  would 
laugh  at  the  idea  of  not  asking  her  friends  to  dine  with  her  on 
any  day  in  the  year  she  felt  inclined  j  and  I  very  much  doubt 
whether  you  would  have  the  slightest  hesitation  in  dining  with 
her  if  she  asked  you.  It  won't  do,  Agatha.  Your  attitude  to 
Mrs.  Redcliffe  is  not  dictated  by  the  disinterested  love  of 
righteousness  that  you  are  hugging  yourself  over,  but  by  a  very 
unworthy  feeling  indeed.  I  never  inquired  exactly  what 
passed  between  you  and  her  when  you  took  it  upon  yourself 
to  remonstrate  with  her  about  her  doings  the  other  day,  but  I 
have  no  doubt  you  received  the  rebuke  you  deserved,  and  now 
that  another  weapon  has  been  put  into  your  hands  against  her 
you  are  only  too  ready  to  use  it.  It  causes  me  the  deepest 
distress  to  see  how  you  are  behaving  in  this  matter." 

"  Really,  William,  I  have  no  patience  with  you,"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Prentice.  "You  lecture  me  as  if  I  were  a  malefactor, 
and  you  know  nothing  whatever  of  what  has  happened.  You 
won't  let  me  get  in  a  word  edgeways,  and  are  altogether  most 
violent  and  unreasonable." 

"  Well,  what  has  happened  ?  I  suppose  you  will  hardly 
have  gone  to  Mrs.  RedclifFe  and  lectured  her  about  this  new 
cause  of  offence,  as  you  did  about  the  old  ?  " 

"  No,  I  have  not.  It  was  Mrs.  RedclifFe  herself,  who  in- 
sisted upon  speaking  to  me  about  it,  though  I  had  no  sort  of 
wish  to  do  so,  or  indeed  to  speak  to  her  about  anything." 

"  Then  you  have  seen  Mrs.  RedclifFe  !  Well,  I  suppose  it 
is  of  no  use  to  be  impatient.  The  harm,  whatever  it  is,  has 
been  done,  and  I  had  better  hear  the  worst  at  once,  and  then 
see  if  I  can  undo  some  of  it," 


MRS.  PRENTICE  TASTES  SUCCESS  205 

"  I  shall  tell  you  nothing,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice,  outraged, 
"  if  you  talk  to  me  in  that  tone.  It  is  monstrous.  You  take 
it  for  granted  that  whatever  I  do  must  be  wrong,  and  put  down 
to  me  the  most  shocking  motives,  when  I  have  only  tried  to  do 
what  is  right,  and  when,  as  I  say,  you  have  heard  nothing  of 
what  has  happened." 

"  I  am  waiting  to  hear  what  has  happened." 

**  Then  I  will  tell  you.  But  I  will  not  listen  to  any  more 
abuse,  and  I  tell  you  so  candidly,  William." 

The  Vicar  made  no  reply,  and  Mrs.  Prentice  began  her 
story.  She  opened  in  much  the  same  way  as  she  had  done  to 
Lady  Wrotham,  but  her  husband  saw  more  clearly  what  lay 
behind  her  statement  than  that  lady  had  done. 

"  Hilda  is  young  and  impulsive,"  he  said,  "but  she  would 
never  have  approached  you  in  that  way  if  there  had  not  been 
some  cause.  I  suppose  the  fact  is  that  you  had  shown  her  and 
her  mother  so  clearly  that  you  disapproved  of  them  and  wished 
to  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  them,  although  you  had 
actually  said  nothing,  that  the  girl  took  offence,  and  naturally 
wanted  to  know  why  you  should  have  treated  them  in  that  way." 

This  was  so  clearly  the  fact,  that  Mrs.  Prentice  could  not 
deny  it.  She  could  only  say  that  it  was  not  to  be  expected 
that  she  should  treat  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  under  the  circumstances 
that  had  arisen,  exactly  as  she  had  done  before. 

"  You  had  no  right  to  do  anything  else,"  said  the  Vicar, 
"  unless  you  were  determined  to  spread  her  story.  The  truth 
is  that  you  took  the  very  means  to  bring  about  what  happened. 
You  must  have  known,  if  you  had  thought  about  it,  that  Mrs. 
RedclifFe,  or  Hilda  on  her  behalf,  would  sooner  or  later  ask 
you  the  reason  of  your  change  of  attitude,  and  I'm  afraid  that 
I  don't  find  it  very  difficult  to  believe  that  you  had  acted 
towards  them  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  a  high-spirited  girl 
like  Hilda  put  the  question  in  such  a  way  as  to  show  her 
resentment." 


2o6  EXTON  MANOR 

"  No,  of  course  you  don't  find  it  difficult  to  believe  anything 
disagreeable  about  your  wife,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice  acidly. 
"  As  a  matter  of  fact  there  was  something  that  had  nothing  to 
do  with  Mrs.  RedclifFe's  story  which  would  have  caused  me 
to  be  very  careful  not  to  have  anything  more  to  do  than  I 
could  help  with  the  girl."  She  then  recounted  her  meeting 
with  the  party  in  Browne's  cart  the  day  before. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  the  Vicar.  "  If  she  laughed  it 
was  not  at  you.  She  is  not  an  ill-mannered  girl.  And  what 
on  earth  has  it  to  do  with  you  if  Lord  Wrotham  likes  to  make 
friends  with  the  Redcliffes  ?  You  seem  to  want  to  keep  the 
Wrothams  as  your  own  special  property.  You  will  make 
yourself  very  ridiculous  about  the  place  if  you  give  occasion 
for  that  to  be  said  against  you." 

Mrs.  Prentice  was  beginning  to  be  borne  down  by  the  weight 
of  her  husband's  displeasure.  It  was  of  no  use  to  repeat  her 
threat  of  leaving  him  unadvised  of  what  had  taken  place.  He 
would  only  have  told  her  impatiently  to  go  on  with  her  story, 
and  she  would  not  have  been  able  to  disobey  him.  She  put 
aside  his  warning  with  a  high  word,  and  proceeded  with  her 
narrative,  laying  great  stress  on  Hilda's  outrageous  violence, 
as  she  called  it,  and  on  Mrs.  RedclifFe's  denunciating  of  her, 
but  very  little  on  the  quieter  passages  of  the  interview,  and 
forgetting  altogether  to  mention  the  extenuating  circumstances 
that  Mrs.  RedclifFe  had  urged  against  the  strictest  view  of  her 
marriage. 

''  It  makes  a  very  pretty  story,"  said  the  Vicar  when  she  had 
finished,  "  but  if  you  ask  me  to  believe  that  Mrs.  RedclifFe 
spoke  to  you  in  that  way  without  receiving  a  great  deal  more 
provocation  than  you  have  admitted,  I  must  decline  to  do  so. 
I  dare  say  the  story  was  good  enough  for  Lady  Wrotham,  who 
does  not  know  her,  but  it  is  not  good  enough  for  me.  There 
is  another  side  to  it." 

Mrs.  Prentice  rose.     "  I  shall  say  no  more,"  she  said.     "  It 


MRS.  PRENTICE  TASTES  SUCCESS  207 

is  useless.  You  seem  to  be  infatuated  with  Mrs.  RedclifFe. 
Since  you  decline  to  believe  a  word  that  I  say,  you  had  better 
go  and  get  the  truth  from  her." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  intend  to  do,"  replied  her  husband. 
"  I  would  give  a  great  deal  not  to  have  to  speak  to  her  about 
it ;  but  now  that  all  this  has  been  let  loose  upon  the  poor  lady 
it  is  for  her  own  advantage  that  I  shall  do  so." 

Mrs.  Prentice  bethought  herself.  It  would  not  be  well  that 
her  husband  should  be  able  to  accuse  her  of  keeping  anything 
back  from  him.  "  I  dare  say  she  will  make  out  a  very  good 
story  for  herself,"  she  said.  "  If  you  prefer  to  believe  her 
rather  than  your  wife,  you  must  do  so  ;  and  you  are  always 
soft  where  women  are  concerned — except  me,  and  there  you 
are  as  hard  as  stone.  Of  course  there  is  the  principle 
of  the  thing,  but  that  won't  weigh  with  you  for  a  mo- 
ment." 

The  Vicar  laughed  grimly.  "  You  are  talking  very  fool- 
ishly," he  said.  "  But  as  I  have  spoken  pretty  stronglv  to 
you,  I  suppose  it  is  only  fair  that  I  should  listen  to  your  accu- 
sations without  resentment.  I  certainly  don't  resent  them ; 
they  are  too  silly." 

"Thank  you,"  returned  Mrs.  Prentice.  "That  is  so  like 
a  man.  I  was  going  to  tell  you  that  Mrs.  RedclifFe  says  that 
she  didn't  know  that  marriage  with  a  deceased  wife's  sister  was 
not  quite  a  usual  and  praiseworthy  custom  until  she  came  to 
England.  It  is  a  good  deal  to  swallow,  but  I  dare  say  you 
will  have  no  difficulty  in  swallowing  it." 

"  I  shall  have  no  difficulty  in  swallowing  any  direct  state- 
ment that  Mrs.  RedclifFe  makes,"  returned  the  Vicar.  "  If 
that  is  so  it  makes  the  poor  lady's  case  a  hard  one.  Well, 
they  say  that  women  are  cruel  to  one  another,  Agatha,  but, 
really,  one  finds  it  difficult  to  believe  that  a  woman  who  has 
known  another  woman,  as  you  have  known  Mrs.  RedclifFe, 
should  find  it  in  her  heart  to  behave  as  you  are  doing  towards 


2o8  EXTON  MANOR 

her.     I  will  say  no  more  than  that  until  I  have  seen  her,  which 
I  will  do  this  afternoon." 

Mrs.  Prentice  left  the  room.  The  interview  had  ended 
quietly  and  with  far  less  tribulation  to  the  spirit  than  she  had 
anticipated.  But  it  did  occur  to  her  once  or  twice  later  that 
her  husband  had  not  yet  said  all  that  he  was  likely  to  say  on 
the  subject,  and  she  was  not  altogether  at  her  ease.  She  spent 
the  afternoon  in  her  room  reading  what  Lady  Wrotham  had 
asked  her  to  read.  The  tracts  prepared  by  the  Ladies'  Refor- 
mation League  for  the  strengthening  of  their  anti-ritual  cam- 
paign left  her  cold,  and  had  indeed  been  unwisely  chosen  for 
the  purpose  which  Lady  Wrotham  had  had  in  mind,  but  the 
book,  which  was  written  by  an  Evangelical  dean,  and  contained 
no  controversial  rancour,  comforted  her  considerably.  The 
chief  lesson  she  drew  from  it  was  that  those  who  acted  rightly 
regardless  of  consequences  were  in  an  exceptionally  enviable 
condition,  and  the  application  to  her  own  case  was  so  impossible 
not  to  make  that  the  truth  of  the  general  Evangelical  attitude 
commended  itself  to  her  agreeably,  and  she  felt  that  she  and 
Lady  Wrotham  had  more  in  common  than  she  had  hitherto 
suspected.' 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE    VICAR 

The  Vicar  walked  up  to  the  White  House  that  afternoon 
considerably  disturbed  in  mind.  The  matter  immediately  in 
hand  was  not  chiefly  responsible  for  his  discomfort.  He 
disliked  the  idea  of  talking  to  Mrs.  RedclifFe  of  her  most 
intimate  affairs,  but  his  feeling  towards  her  was  so  firmly 
anchored  in  respect,  and  his  desire  now  so  strong  to  help 
her,  that  he  could  be  in  no  doubt  as  to  the  ultimate  outcome 
of  this  visit. 

There  were  other  things  to  try  him.  Difficulties  seemed 
to  be  gathering  round  him.  The  autocratic,  narrow-minded 
old  woman,  who  had  come  apparently  determined  to  impose 
her  views  on  all  about  her,  and  to  destroy  the  peace  of  mind 
of  a  fairly  contented  community — how  would  her  actions 
affect  him  in  his  work  and  in  his  life  ?  Disastrously,  he  feared. 
And  if,  added  to  her  opposition  in  Church  matters,  she  was 
such  a  woman  as  to  be  ready  to  persecute  Mrs.  RedclifFe, 
whom  she  had  never  met,  for  the  mistake — as  he  judged  it — 
of  her  past  life,  she  would  in  truth  be  a  stumbling-block  in 
the  way  of  all  peace  and  goodness.  He  had  had  some 
further  conversation,  couched  in  more  mutually  tolerant  form 
than  before,  with  his  wife  over  the  luncheon  table,  with  a 
view  of  extracting  from  her  what  had  passed  between  herself 
and  Lady  Wrotham ;  and  what  he  had  learnt,  although  he 
discounted  a  good  deal  of  it,  distressed  him.  His  wife,  with 
such  an  ally,  would  exhibit  all  her  worst  points,  and  find 
herself  encouraged  in  that  merciless  self-sufficiency  and  apti- 
tude for  strife  which  he  had  told  her  more  than  once  or  twice, 

309 


210  EXTON  MANOR 

with  the  frankness  engendered  of  the  married  state,  was  her 
besetting  sin.  This  was  not  a  state  of  things  that  could  be 
looked  forward  to  with  complacency,  and  if,  besides  this, 
she  was  really  about  to  stultify  all  her  previous  beliefs  and 
championships  and  follow  the  lead  of  Lady  Wrotham  in 
her  opposition  to  himself,  would  not  life  with  her  become 
intolerable  ? 

Curiously,  perhaps,  when  he  had  got  to  the  stage  of  asking 
himself  this  question,  he  did  not  find  the  reply  to  it  to  be 
altogether  discouraging.  He  knew  his  wife  so  well.  Dis- 
pleased though  he  was  with  her  at  the  present  moment,  he 
felt  little  of  that  indignant  anger  which  only  an  adversary 
whom  we  are  doubtful  of  subduing  can  arouse  in  our  minds. 
She  was  undoubtedly  tiresome  in  many  ways  i  her  faults', 
when  they  were  pushed  to  extremes,  distressed  and  even 
scandalized  him  ;  she  was  not  always  easy  to  live  with.  But 
she  was  Agatha,  his  wife  of  five  and  twenty  years.  He  had 
grown  used  to  her.  Virtues,  little  apparent  to  the  outside 
world,  but  known  to  him,  tempered  her  naughtiness  of  heart, 
and  coloured  his  judgment.  And  in  the  long  run  he  knew 
that  he  could  have  his  way  with  her.  At  the  same  time  there 
would  be  serious  difiiculties  and  annoyances  to  overcome 
before  she  would  be  finally  in  subjection,  and  he  would  not 
spare  the  rod  of  his  displeasure  when  she  deserved  it. 

These  musings  brought  him  to  the  gate  of  the  White 
House,  and  he  shook  them  off  to  bend  his  mind  to  the  task 
that  lay  immediately  before  him. 

Hilda  was  at  work  among  the  rose-bushes  in  the  garden, 
and  came  forward  to  meet  him  as  he  walked  up  the  drive. 
Her  attitude  was  uncompromising,  and  she  neither  smiled  nor 
offered  her  hand. 

"  Mother  is  lying  down,"  she  said.  "  Naturally,  she  is 
not  well  after  what  happened  this  morning,  and  I  don't  think 
^hp  will  be  able  to  see  you." 


THE  VICAR  211 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  that,"  he  said.  "  But  aren't  you 
going  to  shake  hands  with  me,  Hilda  ?  " 

She  looked  him  straight  in  the  face.  "  I  think  I  would 
rather  not,"  she  said,  "  until  I  know  what  you  think,  or  have 
to  say,  about  what  you  have  probably  heard  of.  And  I  will 
never  take  Mrs.  Prentice's  hand  again  as  long  as  I  live." 

There  was  a  flame  of  the  old  resentment  in  her  face  which 
saddened  him.  "  My  dear,"  he  said,  "  I  know  that  there 
were  regrettable  things  said  this  morning.  I  have  come  up 
to  see  if  I  can  do  something  to  take  away  the  effect  of  them. 
You  must  not  treat  an  old  friend  as  if  he  were  an  enemy, 
certainly  not  before  you  have  heard  what  he  has  to  say  for 
himself." 

The  antagonism  in  her  face  died  down,  but  she  did  not 
move.  "  I  don't  know  who  are  friends  and  who  are  enemies 
now,"  she  said.  "  I  only  know  that  my  dear  mother,  who 
is  the  best  woman  in  the  world,  is  in  trouble,  and  because 
she  is  in  trouble  those  who  ought  to  be  her  friends  and  value 
her  as  she  deserves  hate  her." 

"  I  hope  you  will  find  very  soon  that  that  is  not  so,  Hilda. 
And  here  is  one  friend  who  does  value  your  mother  as  she 
deserves,  and  would  like  to  assure  her  of  it." 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  said  that,"  she  said,  softening  a 
little.  "  It  is  no  more  than  you  ought  to  say.  But  how 
can  we  go  on  being  friends  with  you,  Mr.  Prentice,  after 
what  has  happened  ?  I  said  things  to  Mrs.  Prentice  this 
morning  that  you  would  be  shocked  to  hear.  But  I  meant 
them  every  word,  and  I  would  say  them  again." 

They  were  standing  on  the  gravel  near  the  house.  Mrs. 
RedclifFe,  whose  bedroom  windows  were  at  this  corner,  had 
heard  their  voices  and  hastened  to  come  down.  She  now 
appeared  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Prentice,"  she  said,  and 
le(^  ♦fee  way  to  the  parlour.     Hilda  closed  the  door,  and  again 


212  EXTON  MANOR 

there  were  three  of  them  closeted  together,  and  distressing 
things  to  be  said. 

But  the  Vicar  hastened  to  relieve  the  tension.  "  Mrs. 
Redcliffe,"  he  said,  "  I  have  heard  everything  that  happened 
this  morning,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  not  want  to  discuss 
it  with  me.  I  will  only  say  this — that  1  am  deeply  sorry 
that  my  wife  should  have  acted  as  she  did.  More  than  that 
you  will  not  expect  me  to  say.  But  I  want  you  to  con- 
sider if  you  will  that  I  am  not  only  your  friend  of  some 
years'  standing.  If  it  were  only  that  perhaps  I  could  not 
come  here    apart  from    my  wife,   after   what  has   happened, 

until Well,  at  all  events,  I  have  come,  because  I  am  the 

clergyman  of  this  parish,  as  well  as  your  friend,  and  you 
have  a  right  to  my  help  and  advice,  if  you  care  to  make  use 
of  it." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Prentice,"  replied  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  "  But 
I  do  not  feel  now  that  I  want  help  or  advice.  Things  became 
plainer  to  me  this  morning,  and  I  see  that  there  is  nothing  to 
be  done,  except  to  go  on  living  my  life  as  I  have  been  doing, 
keeping  such  friendships  as  are  still  open  to  me,  and  doing 
without  those  that  are  withdrawn.  Even  from  the  point  of 
view  of  the  Pharisee,  there  is  nothing  to  be  done.  There  is 
no  advice  to  be  given  or  taken." 

"  Mrs.  Prentice  advised  you  to  repent,  mother,"  said  Hilda, 
her  young  voice  full  of  scorn. 

The  Vicar  grew  red.  "  May  we  not  put  aside  for  the  pres- 
ent what  Mrs.  Prentice  said  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  wish  to  do  so,"  said  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  "  And  I  do" 
recognize  the  friendliness  of  your  action  in  coming  here,  Mr. 
Prentice.  It  is  what  I  should  have  expected  of  you.  Perhaps, 
under  the  circumstances,  we  cannot  go  on  seeing  so  much  of 
each  other  as  we  have  done  in  the  past,  but  our  friendship,  I  be- 
lieve, is  founded  on  what  we  know  of  each  other.  That  is  sure 
ground,  and  even  now,  though  you  may  feel — I  don't  know — 


THE  VICAR  2x3 

that  what  you  have  heard  alters  your  opinion  of  me  in  some 
degree,  still  there  may  be  kindly  feeling  between  us." 

"  What  I  have  heard  does  not  alter  my  opinion  of  you,  Mrs. 
RedclifFe,"  said  the  Vicar.     "  How  could  it  ?  " 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  I  know  what  the  views  of  Churchmen 
are  on  this  question.  I  have  read  them  when  it  has  come  up, 
and  I  have  even  heard  them  preached  about.  I  have  heard 
you  preach  on  the  subject,  Mr.  Prentice." 

The  Vicar  grew  red.  He  remembered,  though  he  had  pre- 
viously forgotten,  that  on  one  of  the  occasions  on  which  a 
Deceased  Wife's  Sister  Bill  had  been  before  Parliament  he  had 
delivered  himself  in  the  pulpit  of  Exton  Abbey  of  a  collection 
of  the  usual  clerical  objections  to  it. 

*'  If  I  had  known "  he  began. 

*'  I  know  you  would  not  willingly  have  hurt  me,"  said  Mrs. 
RedclifFe.  "  You  needn't  tell  me  that.  And  I  don't  know 
that  you  did  hurt  me.  You  were  simply  expressing  views 
that  I  was  quite  familiar  with,  and  I  should  have  expected  you 
to  hold  them.  I  do  not  expect  you  to  alter  them  because 
of  me." 

"  I  think  they  are  very  narrow-minded  views,'*  said  Hilda 
uncompromisingly.  "  But  if  Mr.  Prentice  holds  them  I  sup- 
pose he  is  bound  to  be  like  Mrs.  Prentice,  and  look  upon  us  as 
people  he  can't  possibly  associate  with." 

"  You  are  quite  wrong,  Hilda,"  said  the  Vicar.  "  To  act 
in  that  way  would  not  even  be  the  logical  outcome  of  my 
views.  I  must  be  honest  with  you,  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  I  should 
resist,  as  far  as  I  had  any  power,  any  new  legislation  on  the 
subject,  and — I  am  not  quite  sure,  I  have  not  thought  the 
matter  out — I  think  I  should  not  become  intimate  with — 
with  a  couple,  an  English  couple,  who  had  gone  through 
the  ceremony  abroad,  and  were  living  in  my  parish.  But  your 
case  is  very  difFerent.  Even  if  you  had  not  married,  as  my 
wife  told  me  was  the  case,  in  ignorance  of  the  Church's  rule, 


214  EXTON  MANOR 

you — it  would  be  wrong,  un-Christian  to — to — I  don't  know 
how  to  put  it — it  would  amount  to  taking  it  upon  one's 
self  to  ostracize  you  for  what  cannot  now  be  altered,  even  if 
you  wished  to  have  it  altered,  and  to  holding  one's  self  aloof 
from  one  from  whom  one  has  only  been  helped  and  encouraged 
in  every  good  work." 

"  Then  you  do  not  insist  upon  mother's  repenting  before 
you  can  treat  her  as  worthy  to  live  at  all  ? "  asked  Hilda,  un- 
softened  by  his  tribute. 

The  Vicar  was  silent.  If  the  case  had  been  submitted  to 
him  on  paper,  he  would  certainly  have  decreed  that  repentance 
must  precede  a  complete  forgiveness  of  the  ofFence  to  the 
Church's  law,  even  though  that  offence  were  committed  in  in- 
nocence. But  the  deceased  wife's  sister  had  projected  herself 
from  an  impersonal  ecclesiastical  bogie  into  the  form  of  Mrs. 
Redcliffe,  charitable,  high-minded,  calm  in  judgment,  untiring 
in  good  works,  a  woman  whom  it  was  a  privilege  to  know,  and 
an  inspiration  to  all  patient  goodness  to  count  as  a  friend. 
Do  circumstances  alter  cases  ?  Surely,  in  this  case  of  a  woman 
so  patently  producing  the  fruits  of  righteousness,  it  was  im- 
possible to  judge  of  her  as  living  apart  from  grace — in  a  state 
of  sin  ! 

"  I  don't  say  that ;  I  say  nothing  more  than  I  have  said,"  he 
replied  after  a  short  pause,  during  which  these  thoughts  had 
passed  through  his  mind. 

But  the  pause  had  been  too  long  for  Hilda.  She  made  a 
movement  of  impatience.  *'  The  idea,"  she  exclaimed,  indig- 
nantly, "  of  saying  such  a  thing  about  my  mother  !  You 
know  how  good  she  is,  and  her  goodness  seems  to  go  for 
nothing  beside  a  stupid  law  that  ought  never  to  have  been 
made." 

"  Do  not  speak  in  that  way,  Hilda,"  said  Mrs.  Redcliffe. 
"  Mr.  Prentice  has  said  just  what  I  could  have  wished  him  to 
say,  and  said  it  with  true  kindness.". 


THE  VICAR 


213 


**  He  has  said  pretty  well  what  Mrs.  Prentice  said,"  replied 
Hilda.  "  Only  she  wanted  to  say  yes,  and  he  would  have 
liked  to  say  no  if  he  could.  1  am  not  satisfied,  mother,  if  you 
are.  You  are  too  good  and  patient.  I  cannot  listen  to  any 
more.  It  makes  me  angry  to  think  that  any  good  man  or 
woman  should  not  take  your  side  as  a  matter  of  course,  with- 
out weighing  this  or  that.  I  shall  go  now,  and  if  you  can 
make  Mr.  Prentice  see  what  harm  he  is  doing  to  himself  and 
his  religion  by  putting  rules  before  goodness  it  will  be  all  the 
better  for  him."  And  she  left  the  room  with  her  head  in 
the  air. 

"  It  has  been  a  great  blow  to  her,"  said  Mrs.  Redcliffe, 
when  the  door  had  closed  behind  Hilda.  "  It  has  upset  all  her 
standards ;  and  the  way  it  will  affect  her  causes  me  more  dis- 
tress than  anything  else.  You  must  forgive  her  if  she  speaks 
harshly.  Youth  always  takes  a  harsh  view  when  its  affections 
are  wounded." 

"  Oh,  indeed,  I  honour  her  for  her  championship,"  said  the 
Vicar.  "  And  I  do  not  feel  that  her  blame  is  undeserved.  It 
is  a  terrible  thing,  as  she  says,  to  prefer  rules  to  goodness. 
But,  my  dear  friend,  it  is  not  easy  to  adjust  one's  thoughts  to 
a  disturbance  of  belief.  If  I  were  to  throw  over  at  once 
and  completely  all  I  had  held  and  taught  on  the  subject,  it  might 
satisfy  Hilda  for  the  moment,  but  it  would  not  satisfy  you. 
There  is  no  real  antagonism  between  my  views  on  the  general 
question  and  my  continued  respect  for  you  personally,  and,  if 
I  appear  to  hesitate  over  answering  any  particular  question,  it 
is  only  because  I  must  make  clear  to  my  own  mind  where  truth 
and  the  right  lies." 

"  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Redcliffe.  "I  do  not  misunderstand 
you.  You  have  lifted  a  weight  from  my  mind,  for  I  must  tell 
you,  that  although  I  do  not  resent  the  views  held  by  the  more 
strict  of  your  Church,  my  own  marriage  has  taught  me  that 
they  are  wrong.     To  do  what  I   did  cannot  be  a  sin,  for 


2i6  EXTON  MANOR 

a  sin,  committed  and  persisted  in,  must  cut  you  off  from  God, 
and  my  marriage  while  it  lasted,  and  the  memory  of  it  ever 
since,  has  only  brought  me  nearer  to  Him.  That  is  as  deeply 
my  experience  as  any  lesson  the  years  can  teach  us  about  the 
pursuit  of  righteousness.  Perhaps  it  is  too  much  to  ask  that 
you  should  accept  my  experience  as  if  it  were  your  own,  but 
to  treat  me  now  as  one  who  has  something  on  her  conscience 
that  unfits  her  to  live  amongst  professing  Christians,  is  an  of- 
fence that  I  cannot  lightly  ignore.  I  did  not  think  that  you 
could  commit  it,  and  you  have  not." 

"My  wife,  I  am  afraid,  has  done  so,"  returned  the  Vicar 
ruefully.  "  I  am  very  sorry  for  it.  But,  Mrs.  Redcliffe,  you 
will  not  judge  her  harshly.  You  know  what  her  faults  are. 
But  she  is  good  at  heart.  She  will  be  sorry  herself  for  what 
she  has  said  and  done — and  I  hope  before  very  long." 

He  made  this  appeal  with  the  full  belief  that  it  would  be  re- 
sponded to.  He  knew  Mrs.  RedclifFe  as  a  woman  more  than 
others  ready  to  make  allowances.  He  had  heard  her  put  in  a 
quiet  word  of  excuse  for  some  one  palpably  in  the  wrong 
many  times.  He  had  never  in  all  his  experiences  of  her  heard 
her  impute  blame  to  a  single  living  creature.  And  he  had 
known  her  make  ample  allowances  for  his  wife,  who,  without 
such  allowances,  would  have  made  mischief  before  this  be- 
tween the  vicarage  and  the  White  House,  for  she  had  always 
been  jealous  of  Mrs.  RedclifFe  and  her  placid  influence. 

But  there  was  to  be  no  further  exoneration  from  clear 
obliquity  of  purpose.  Mrs.  RedclifFe's  face  grew  sterner.  '*  I 
think,"  she  said,  "  that  there  are  sins  which  no  one  can  com- 
mit and  expect  their  neighbours  to  live  with  them  as  before. 
And  I  think  Mrs.  Prentice  has  committed  one  of  them.  What 
Hilda  said  is  true.  She  wanted,  as  earnestly  as  she  could 
want  anything,  to  find  wickedness  in  me,  and  she  used  the 
opinions  she  had  acquired  on  this  question  as  an  excuse,  and 
not  as  a  reason  for  finding  me  guilty.     I  do  regard  such  an  at* 


THE  VICAR  217 

titude  as  a  sin  against  the  light,  and  I  should  say  the  same — 
that  is  the  test  of  whether  my  own  attitude  to  her  now  is  not 
dictated  by  resentment — I  should  say  the  same  if  it  were  an- 
other woman  towards  whom  I  knew  she  felt  as  she  does  to 
me,  and  I  were  not  directly  concerned.  I  would  have  nothing  to 
do  with  one  woman  who  persecuted  another  with  those  motives." 

The  Vicar  was  at  a  loss.  Her  rigidity  surprised  and  discon- 
certed him. 

*'  I  know  how  deeply  she  must  have  offended  you,"  he  said, 
''  for  you  to  speak  like  that." 

"  She  did  offend  me — deeply.  But  she  has  offended  me  be- 
fore and  I  have  made  light  of  it.  I  cannot  do  so  now.  If  it 
were  only  for  Hilda's  sake,  I  must  be  known  to  abhor  the 
spirit  she  has  shown.  There  is  no  good  in  it,  only  malice  and 
evil.  And  with  one  woman  to  another,  to  whom  she  should 
have  shown — perhaps  pity,  though  I  do  not  want  pity,  but 
certainly  kindness  and  sympathy,  for  I  told  her  everything. 
No,  there  is  no  excuse.  She  is  jubilant  at  what  she  has  dis- 
covered about  me,  and  if  trouble  comes  of  it  to  me  and  to 
Hilda,  it  is  to  her  I  shall  owe  it." 

The  Vicar  had  nothing  to  say.  He  recognized  the  truth  of 
Mrs.  RedclifFe's  accusation,  all  the  more  forceful  as  coming 
from  her.  A  feeling  of  deep  anger,  such  as  he  had  never  felt 
against  her  before,  held  him  as  he  thought  of  his  wife,  an  echo 
of  the  impersonal  anger  that  Mrs.  RedclifFe  had  expressed 
against  the  wrong-doer,  stronger  than  it  was  in  her  to  feel  on 
account  of  the  wrong  done  to  her.  The  world  must  go  awry, 
and  the  claims  of  religion  be  brought  into  contempt,  if  such  a 
spirit  were  to  be  allowed  to  walk  abroad  unlaid. 

*'  I  am  afraid  that  you  have  justification  for  what  you  say," 
he  replied.  "  I  shall  not  shrink  from  my  duty  in  rebuking  the 
fault.  But  no  fault — no  sin — is  beyond  forgiveness.  You 
will  not  shut  your  heart  against  her  when  she  comes  to  see 
that  she  has  been  wrong  ? " 


2i8  EXTON  MANOR 

"  When  I  know  that  she  comes  to  see  it — when  she  tells 
me  so  unreservedly — I  will  wipe  it  out  of  my  mind.  The 
offence  against  me  shall  be  as  nothing.  But  until  that  time 
comes  there  will  be  no  drawing  back,  Mr.  Prentice.  My  dis- 
pleasure against  her  will  be  as  strong  as  hers  against  me,  and 
I  shall  not  hesitate  to  express  it  where  I  see  the  necessity." 

There  was  no  more  to  say.  The  Vicar  left  her  and  walked 
back  to  his  house  sad  at  heart.  He  had  been  impressed  by 
Mrs.  RedclifFe's  calm,  sensible  view  of  her  own  position,  her 
views  of  what  was  due  to  herself  from  the  world  and  of  what 
was  due  from  herself  to  the  prejudices  of  the  world.  He 
always  expected  Mrs.  RedclifFe  to  be  sensible,  sensible  almost 
with  inspiration,  and  he  had  even  been  willing  in  some  re- 
spects to  accept  her  view  as  against  his  own,  at  any  rate  as  far 
as  her  case  was  concerned.  But  he  would  never  have  seen 
deeper  than  the  surface — more  than  the  unfortunate  falling 
out  of  two  women,  both  of  whom  had  something  to  say  in 
their  own  excuse,  although  the  one  more  than  the  other,  if  it 
had  not  been  for  the  quite  unsuspected  capacity  for  uncom- 
promising wrath  that  Mrs.  RedclifFe  had  displayed.  Here  was 
no  angry  sense  of  injustice  that  could  be  soothed  by  a  lightly 
spoken  word  of  sympathy.  It  came  welling  out  of  the 
woman's  heart,  fortified  by  all  her  experience  of  goodness  and 
all  the  self-disciplined  motives  of  her  life.  It  burned  with  a 
spiritual  flame.  Woe  betide  him  if  he  did  not  guide  his  course 
by  its  heat.  Yes,  the  girl  was  right.  This  was  a  transpar- 
ently good  woman,  and  those  who  were  not  for  her  in  the 
crisis  of  her  life  were  ranging  themselves  on  the  side  of  evil. 
He,  at  any  rate,  would  from  henceforward  be  on  her  side,  and 
he  would  fight  for  her  even  against  his  nearest. 

The  interview  which  he  immediately  sought  with  his  wife 
need  not  be  reported  in  detail.  He  spoke  as  strongly  as  he 
felt,  and  Mrs.  Prentice  was  ultimately  brought  to  tears.  But 
they  were  not  the  tears  of  penitence,  but  of  revolt.     The  fact 


THE  VICAR  219 

that  her  original  dislike  of  Mrs.  RedclifFe  arose  from  the  feel- 
ing that  she  was  a  better  woman  than  herself,  and  was  recog- 
nized as  such,  did  not  dispose  her  to  softness  when  she  heard 
Mrs.  RedclifFe  extolled  as  a  saint  and  herself  condemned  as  a 
sinner  by  her  own  husband.  Her  mind  was  honestly  unable 
to  grasp  that  a  woman  who  had  married  her  deceased  sister's 
husband  might  move  on  a  higher  plane  of  conduct  than  one 
who  had  escaped  that  temptation,  and  a  good  deal  of  the 
Vicar's  diatribe  she  rejected  indignantly,  thereby  supporting  in 
comparative  comfort  those  parts  of  it  which  would  otherwise 
have  found  their  way  to  her  conscience. 

"  It  is  you  who  are  un-Christian,"  she  cried  out  at  length, 
furious  with  anger  and  jealousy.  "  Lady  Wrotham  is  quite 
right.  You  are  not  fit  to  be  in  your  present  position.  And  I 
shall  tell  her  I  think  so." 

And  that  was  all  that  the  Vicar  got  for  the  present  by  his 
championship  of  Mrs.  RedclifFe. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

TURNER  AND  BROWNE  TAKE  SIDES 

Browne,  in  pursuance  of  his  promise  to  Lady  Wrotham, 
jresented  himself  at  the  Fisheries  that  same  afternoon,  and 
found  Captain  Thomas  Turner  seated  in  front  of  his  fire,  deep 
in  the  perusal  of  a  new  novel  from  a  box  that  had  just  reached 
him. 

"  Well,  you're  a  nice  fellow,"  he  said.  "  Fancy  frousting 
indoors  over  a  book  at  this  time  of  day  !  " 

Turner  looked  slightly  apologetic.  "  Been  out  all  the 
morning  and  afternoon,"  he  said,  "  and  it's  infernally  chilly. 
Don't  mean  to  go  out  again." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do,"  returned  Browne.  "  You've  got  to 
drive  down  to  the  Abbey  and  call  on  her  ladyship  with  me." 

"  That's  the  last  thing  I  intend  to  do.  Stop  and  have  some 
tea.  I'm  ready  for  a  little  company.  You  can  sit  down  and 
read  a  book — plenty  of  good  ones  here — or  we'll  have  a  game 
of  picquet,  which  ever  you  like." 

"  Look  here.  Turner,"  said  Browne  earnestly.  "  Do  come 
down.  She  expects  you,  and  it'll  make  it  infernally  hard  for 
me  if  you  don't." 

Turner  bent  a  look  of  demure  consideration  on  him.  **  Poor 
devil !  "  he  said  slowly.     "  Poor,  poor  devil !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Browne. 

"  You're  a  parasite,  Browne,  a  blooming  old  parasite." 

"  I'm  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Browne  indignantly.  "  I'm 
out  in  the  open  air  all  day  long,  and  as  healthy  a  fellow  as 
you'll  see  anywhere." 

"  You  follow  one  of  the  parasitical  occupations.  You're 
not  your  own  master.     You've  got  to  kow-tow  to  an  old 

220 


TURNER  AND  BROWNE  TAKE  SIDES      221 

woman  if  you  want  to  keep  your  place.  I  wouldn't  be  you 
for  anything  in  the  world.  Give  me  freedom ;  freedom  with 
a  crust  if  you  like,  but  still  freedom." 

"There's  nothing  to  be  said  against  working  for  other 
people.  You  had  to  obey  orders  yourself  when  you  were  in 
the  Service.     You're  talking  rot.     I'm  as  free  as  you  are." 

"  Well,  then,  go  and  lap  up  your  milk  out  of  the  old  lady's 
saucer,  if  you  like  it,  and  leave  me  to  myself." 

"  I  shall  take  it  as  devilish  unfriendly  if  you  don't  come, 
Turner.  Hang  it,  the  old  lady  only  wants  to  be  civil  to  you. 
She's  a  newcomer  here — that's  what  she  says  herself — and 
the  ladies  in  the  place  will  call  on  her,  as  if  she  was  anybody 
else.  That's  what  she  wants,  only  she  says  that  bachelors  are 
rather  different,  and  asked  me  to  bring  you  to  see  her,  and  I 
said  I'd  bring  you  to-day.  It's  me  you're  putting  a  slight  on 
if  you  don't  come,  not  her.  Well,  it'll  be  her  too,  for  I  shall 
have  to  give  her  some  reasons." 

"  If  you  put  it  in  that  way,  Maximilian,  I  don't  know  that 
I  can  refuse  you.  Only  I  tell  you  this,  I  shan't  kow-tow  to 
her.     I'm  as  good  as  she  is,  for  although  my  father  kept  a 

shop — a  d d  big  shop,  or  I  shouldn't  be  where  I  am — I 

don't  want  anything  of  anybody ;  and  you  can't  get  higher 
than  that." 

*'  She  won't  want  you  to  kow-tow  to  her.  She's  a  nice, 
friendly  old  lady.  Well,  come  along.  It's  nearly  half-past 
four." 

"  I  must  change  my  clothes  first.  I'm  not  a  parasite,  but 
I  know  what's  due  to  a  lady." 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  they  drove  down  through  the 
wood  together.  They  found  Mrs.  Prentice  closeted  with 
Lady  Wrotham,  and  both  ladies  looked  as  if  they  had  been 
discussing  matters  of  import.  Browne  made  the  introduction, 
and  Lady  Wrotham  threw  off  her  preoccupation  and  gave 
Turner  a  pleasant  welcome. 


222  EXTON  MANOR 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Prentice  ?  "  said  that  gentleman 
when  he  had  shaken  hands  with  his  hostess.  "I  hope  w? 
meet  as  friends." 

"  It  is  not  my  nature  to  bear  enmity,  Captain  Turner," 
said  Mrs.  Prentice,  shaking  hands  with  him,  unwilling  to 
enter  into  a  skirmish  in  front  of  Lady  Wrotham. 

"  I  believe  my  son  went  up  to  look  at  your  fish  yesterday. 
Captain  Turner,"  said  Lady  Wrotham,  as  she  poured  out 
the  tea.  "  He  talks  of  making  a  hatchery  himself,  in  North- 
umberland. I  hope  you  did  not  encourage  him.  I  know 
Lord  Wrotham  spent  a  lot  on  this  place  and  found  it  unsatis- 
factory, though  I  hope  you  are  doing  better." 

"I  don't  make  much  money,"  replied  Turner,  "but  I  pay 
my  rent  and  I've  got  something  to  do,  I  didn't  hold  out 
hopes  that  more  could  be  done  with  the  business  than  that." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  My  son  is  full  of  energy,  and 
always  starting  something  fresh.  Still,  the  hatching  must  be 
interesting  to  watch.  Perhaps  you  will  let  me  come  and  see 
it  some  day." 

"  I  shall  be  pleased,"  replied  Turner.  "  If  you  would 
kindly  give  me  a  day's  notice  I  will  see  that  everything  is 
ship-shape." 

This  was  not  a  very  cordial  invitation,  and  so  Mrs.  Prentice 
must  have  thought,  for  she  broke  in,  *'  I  am  sure.  Captain 
Turner,  you  will  be  more  than  delighted  to  show  Lady  Wro- 
tham everything  that  there  is  to  be  seen." 

"  I  don't  know  what  being  more  than  delighted  means," 
replied  Turner;  "but  I  said  I  should  be  pleased." 

Lady  Wrotham  threw  a  look  at  him.  He  was  sitting  up- 
right on  a  stiff  chair,  his  tea-cup  in  his  hand  and  a  savoury 
sandwich  in  his  mouth.  His  face  was  expressionless.  She 
tried  him  again. 

"  It  is  rather  lonely,  is  it  not,"  she  asked,  *'  living  up  in  the 
woods  by  yourself?  " 


TURNER  AND  BROWNE  TAKE  SIDES      223 

'*  I  don't  find  it  so,"  he  replied.  "  I've  got  plenty  to  do  in 
the  day  time,  with  my  fishes  and  my  flowers.  I  like  garden- 
ing.    And  at  night  I  read  a  book." 

"  Ah,  of  course,  books  are  a  great  standby.  One  has  the 
company  of  the  greatest  minds." 

"  I  haven't.  I  only  read  novels.  I  read  every  novel  that 
comes  out." 

"  Dear  me  !     But  isn't  that  rather  a  waste  of  time  ?  " 

"  Some  people  think  it  so.  Mr.  Browne  does.  He  says 
if  he  read  so  many  novels  as  I  do  his  brain  would  run  to 
seed.  He'd  hate  that.  I'm  not  afraid  for  myself,  because  I 
haven't  got  so  large  a  brain  as  he  has." 

The  unfortunate  Browne  swallowed  a  gulp  of  hot  tea  and 
subsequently  choked,  which  prevented  him  from  defending 
himself.     Mrs.  Prentice  took  a  hand  in  the  conversation. 

"  I  do  not  object  to  novel-reading  in  moderation,"  she  said  j 
"  but  I  like  to  have  a  good  solid  book  going  at  the  same 
time." 

"  Some  of  my  novels  are  very  solid,"  said  Turner.  "  You'd 
be  surprised  to  find  how  solid." 

Lady  Wrotham  was  again  at  a  loss  quite  what  to  make  of 
this  strange,  solemn  person.  "  Of  course  you  are  not  entirely 
cut  off  from  your  neighbours,"  she  said.  "  You  are  not  quite 
a  hermit.  Captain  Turner  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  I  see  a  good  deal  of  Mr.  Browne.  I'm  ignorant, 
but  he  puts  up  with  me.  And  I  like  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  She's 
very  kind  to  us  bachelors.  We  have  little  games  of  Bridge. 
And  there's  Mrs.  O'Keefe,  when  she's  here,  and  the  Ferrabys 
— I've  known  Ferraby  a  good  many  years — and  Mrs.  Pren- 
tice's son,  he's  kind  to  me.  And  the  Vicar;  he's  kind  too, 
though  he  doesn't  quite  approve  of  me." 

"  I  think  I  should  not  mention  that  if  I  were  you.  Captain 
Turner,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice  stiffly,  "  or  Lady  Wrotham  might 
feel  inclined  to  ask  you  the  reason  for  our  disapproval." 


224  EXTON  MANOR 

"I'm  sorry  you  join  in  the  disapproval,  Mrs.  Prentice," 
Turner  proceeded,  in  an  even  voice.  "I  was  afraid  it  might 
be  so.  But  if  you  think  Lady  Wrotham  would  like  to  know 
the  reason,  perhaps  you  will  tell  her." 

Mrs.  Prentice  grew  a  dusky  red.  "  I  think  your  behaviour 
is  not  very  seemly,"  she  said.  "  I  should  not  have  expected 
you  to  talk  here  in  the  extraordinary  and  objectionable  way  you 
always  do." 

"  It's  his  fun,"  cried  Browne  in  an  agonized  voice.  "  It's 
only  his  fun." 

"  It  is  not  my  idea  of  fun,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice. 

Turner  addressed  himself  to  Lady  Wrotham,  who  still  eyed 
him  with  a  puzzled  air.  "  I  must  confess,"  he  said,  "  that 
Mr.  Prentice  has  reason  for  his  disapproval,  as  a  clergyman  who 
likes  to  see  a  large  and  happy  congregation  facing  him.  I  very 
seldom  make  one  of  them." 

"  Oh,  indeed,"  said  Lady  Wrotham. 

"  Naturally  he  doesn't  like  that,"  pursued  Turner.  "  No 
clergyman  would.     I  don't  blame  him." 

*'  Perhaps  you  are  too  much  occupied  with  your  fish  to 
allow  you  to  attend  divine  service,"  suggested  Lady  Wrotham. 

"  Oh,  no,  it  isn't  that  at  all.  I  could  come  perfectly  well 
if  I  liked." 

Browne  wiped  his  brow.  "  I  don't  fancy  Lady  Wrotham 
would  be  interested  in  your  religious  views.  Turner,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  but  I  am,"  she  said.  "  I  am  interested  in  every 
one's  religious  views.  Possibly  the  services  as  they  have  been 
conducted  at  the  church  are  too  ritualistic  for  you.  Captain 
Turner." 

Mrs.  Prentice  sniffed,  but  wished  she  had  not  done  so 
when  she  found  the  eye  of  her  patroness  fixed  upon  her. 
"  We  have  agreed,  I  think,  Mrs.  Prentice,"  said  Lady  Wro- 
tham, "  that  it  will  be  as  well  that  changes  should  take  place 
cnere.'' 


TURNER  AND  BROWNE  TAKE  SIDES      225 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  unfortunate  woman.  "  I  certainly 
think  it  would  be  wiser." 

Turner  bent  a  reproachful  iook  on  her.  "  Why,  I  thought 
you  were  trying  to  persuade  the  Vicar  to  have  incense,"  he 
said.  "  I  thought  you  liked  the  smell ; — and  confessional 
boxes  ?  " 

"  That  is  an  absolute  and  unblushing  falsehood,"  replied 
Mrs.  Prentice  angrily. 

"  I  am  not  altogether  surprised,"  said  Lady  Wrotham, 
ignoring  this  little  passage  of  arms,  "  that  there  should  be 
some  who  are  inclined  to  keep  away  from  public  worship  on 
account  of  the  way  it  has  been  conducted.  I  intend  to  hold 
a  weekly  service  here,  Captain  Turner,  of  Scripture  reading 
and  prayers  and  simple  hymns.  I  shall  be  very  pleased  if 
you  would  care  to  be  present.  Mrs.  Prentice  and  I  have 
arranged  the  first  meeting  for  next  Wednesday  at  five 
o'clock." 

Browne  opened  his  eyes  and  stared  at  each  of  the  ladies  in 
turn.  Lady  Wrotham  was  serene,  Mrs.  Prentice  apparently 
flustered. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Turner;  "but  I  hope  you 
will  excuse  me." 

Lady  Wrotham  looked  at  him.  "  There  will  certainly  be 
no  ritual  on  this  occasion,"  she  said. 

"  I  like  ritual,"  replied  Turner.  "  It  is  not  that.  I  don't 
care  for  religious  services." 

Lady  Wrotham  drew  herself  up.  *'  Then  in  that  case," 
she  said,  "  I  need  say  no  more,  except  that  I  am  sorry  I  mis- 
understood you." 

"  He — he  reads  sermons  and  things  at  home,"  said  Browne 
desperately. 

"  No,  never,"  said  the  inexorable  Turner.  "  I  read  nothing 
but  novels — except  an  occasional  play  by  Shakespeare,  and 
that  only  out  of  a  sense  of  duty.     I  don't  pretend  to  like  it. 


226  EXTON  MANOR 

I  don't  want  Lady  Wrotham  to  have  a  wrong  opinion  of  me. 
Hate  sailing  under  false  colours." 

"  You  are  not  likely  to  do  that,  Captain  Turner,"  said  Mrs. 
Prentice.  ''  Every  one  knows  here  that  as  far  as  religion  goes 
you  are  an  open  scoffer." 

"  No,  that's  not  so,"  said  Turner.  "  I  never  scoff  at  re- 
ligion. I  may  have  something  to  say  occasionally  about  the 
people  who  profess  it." 

Lady  Wrotham's  brow  unbent.  She  had  placed  him  now. 
He  was  no  longer  a  gentleman  living  in  a  small  way  under 
the  shadow  of  the  castle,  who  had  refused  an  invitation  she 
had  vouchsafed  to  him.  He  was  a  soul,  a  brand,  a  sinner, 
six  lean  feet  of  raw  material  sent  to  her  to  be  manufactured 
into  the  finished  article  beloved  of  the  Women's  Reformation 
League.  "  I  think  it  is  honest  of  Captain  Turner  to  confess 
his  unbeliefs,"  she  said.  '■*■  I  would  rather  that  than  a  per~ 
functory  observance  which  has  no  reality  underneath  it.  Cap- 
tain Turner,  if  you  can  spare  half-an-hour  from  your  novel- 
reading,  will  you  oblige  me  by  reading  these  ?  "  and  she  pressed 
upon  him  a  hurriedly  selected  packet  of  tracts. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Turner,  taking  them.  "I  wouldn't 
think  of  saying  no.  But  to  tell  you  the  honest  truth.  Lady 
Wrotham,  I  don't  think  they'll  do  me  the  slightest  good.  I 
was  brought  up  on  them,  you  know.  It's  rather  like  pouring 
champagne  down  a  man's  throat  for  medicine.  If  he's  never 
drunk  much  it  does  him  a  world  of  good.  If  he's  soaked 
with  it  you  might  just  as  well  give  him  water." 

Lady  Wrotham  did  not  quite  like  the  illustration,  but  she 
was  interested  in  her  case.  "  You  were  brought  up  in  a 
godly  home  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Prayers  night  and  morning,  church  twice  and  sometimes 
three  times  on  a  Sunday.  Meetings — ^just  like  you  are  going 
to  start  here,  'cept  that  you're  a  lady  of  title  and  my  father 
was  a  shopkeeper. 


TURNER  AND  BROWNE  TAKE  SIDES       227 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Lady  Wrotham,  and  Mrs.  Prentice  ex- 
claimed — 

"  You  never  told  us  that  piece  of  news  before,  Captain 
Turner." 

"I  thought  you'd  look  down  on  me,"  replied  Turner. 
**  Rather  snobbish  of  me,  perhaps.  But  nobody  wishes  to  be 
thought  low." 

"His  father  was  a  chemical  manufacturer,"  put  in  Browne, 
perspiring  at  every  pore.  "I  don't  know  why  he  should  want 
to  make  himself  out  different  to  what  he  is.  And  he  went  to 
Eton,  and  into  a  good  regiment." 

"  It's  very  kind  of  you,  Browne,  to  try  and  soften  it  down," 
said  Turner.  "  But  there  was  a  shop,  I  assure  you.  You 
could  have  bought  a  sixpenny  tooth-brush  over  the  counter. 
I'm  very  relieved  to  get  it  out.  I've  always  felt  that  Mrs. 
Prentice  would  not  have  been  so  cordial  to  me  if  she  had 
known  it." 

"  Well,  never  mind  the  shop,"  said  Lady  Wrotham  good- 
humouredly.  She  was  beginning  to  place  her  case  as  an  ec- 
centric. "  I  should  like  to  hear  more  about  your  religious  up- 
bringing, and  why  it  has  not  affected  your  later  life." 

"Too  much  of  it,"  said  Turner.  "My  father  was  a  very 
good  man,  but  he  didn't  understand  boys.  We  all  had  too 
much  of  it — there  were  three  of  us.  We  used  to  see  who 
would  make  the  best  hand  of  labouring  under  a  conviction  of 
sin.  You  don't  want  to  labour  under  a  conviction  of  sin  at 
twelve  and  thirteen.  You  want  a  swishing.  My  eldest  brother 
succeeded  to  the  business,  and  when  my  father  died  he  went 
over  to  Rome.  He'd  have  done  it  before,  only  he  didn't  dare. 
The  second— -well,  he  wasn't  a  good  fellow,  but  he's  dead.  1 
was  the  third,  and  I'm  what  you  see  me." 

What  they  saw  was  a  man  in  danger  of  forgetting  where  he 
was  and  bringing  forth  from  beneath  his  cynic's  cloak  a  set  of 
unorthodox  opinions,  strongly  held. 


228  EXTON  MANOR 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Lady  Wrotham,  "  that  every  unbeliever 
thinks  that  there  is  reason  for  his  unbeliefs,  and  when  he 
looks  round  him  and  sees  many  people  who  profess  religious 
views  acting  unworthily,  and  others  following  a  false  relig- 
ion and  playing  with  the  truth,  he  may  persuade  himself  that 
there  is  no  truth  to  be  found  anywhere.  But  indeed  it  is  not 
so,  Captain  Turner.  There  is  truth  in  the  Christian  religion, 
and  if  you  seek  it  earnestly  you  will  find  it  for  yourself. 
And  you  would  hardly  deny,  I  suppose,  that  you  do  meet 
Christian  people,  even  in  your  retired  life,  who  are  a  standing 
example  of  goodness  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  deny  that,"  said  Turner.  *'  Women  espe- 
cially. There's  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  now.  She's  a  religious 
woman,  and  she's  one  of  the  best  I  know.  If  they  were  all 
like  her !  " 

If  he  had  thrown  a  bomb  between  Lady  Wrotham  and  Mrs. 
Prentice  he  could  hardly  have  produced  a  greater  effect. 

"You  hold  her  up  as  an  example  !  "  exclaimed  Lady  Wro- 
tham ;  and  Mrs.  Prentice,  "  Well,  that  is  a  nice  thing  to 
hear !  " 

Browne  looked  shocked  and  puzzled.  Turner's  eyes  nar- 
rowed and  his  lips  shut  down.  "  Do  you  know  Mrs.  Red- 
clifFe ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  have  not  seen  her,"  replied  Lady  Wrotham.  "  But 
I  have  heard  of  her,  and  I  do  not  approve  of  what  I  have 
heard." 

Turner  turned  to  Mrs.  Prentice  with  a  look  of  contempt, 
which  he  made  no  attempt  to  hide.  He  said  nothing,  but  she 
replied  angrily  to  his  look. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should  stare  at  me  like  that,"  she 
said.  "  If  you  think  I  told  Lady  Wrotham  what  she  knows  of 
Mrs.  RedclifFe,  you  are  mistaken." 

"  Well,"  said  Lady  Wrotham,  "  it  was  what  you  told  me  of 
the  way  you  were  received  yesterday  that  has  given  me  the  im- 


TURNER  AND  BROWNE  TAKE  SIDES      229 

pression  I  have  formed  of  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  The  other  fact  that 
I  knew — but  I  wish  to  say  nothing  about  that." 

"  But,  excuse  me,  Lady  Wrotham,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice.  "  I 
think  it  is  hardly  quite  fair  to  me  to  put  me  in  the  position  of 
having  turned  you  against  Mrs.  RedclifFe  with  no  reason  at  all. 
Captain  Turner,  and  others  too,  I  have  no  doubt,  will  only  be 
too  ready  to  accuse  me  of  making  mischief.  It  is  their  way, 
and  I  think  a  very  mean  way,  of  attacking  me  for  not  hiding 
my  disapproval  of  their  godless  habits.  I  hope  you  will  make 
it  understood,  at  any  rate,  that  there  is  something  against  Mrs. 
RedclifFe,  even  if  you  do  not  wish  it  to  become  generally 
known." 

Lady  Wrotham  was  not  pleased.  "  I  will  say  this,  since 
you  force  me,  Mrs.  Prentice,"  she  said  stiffly,  "  but  I  knew 
something  of  Mrs.  RedclifFe  before  I  came  to  live  here,  which 
I  should  not  have  mentioned  if  I  had  not  thought  that  it  was 
common  property.  But  my  opinion  of  Mrs.  RedclifFe  is  drawn 
entirely  from  what  you  told  me  of  her  yesterday.  If  every- 
thing you  said  was  true,  you  have  no  reason  to  be  ashamed  of 
your  straightforwardness  in  telling  me  the  kind  of  ladies  I  have 
living  practically  in  my  park." 

Turner  rose.  "  Mrs.  RedclifFe  is  a  friend  of  mine  and  a 
friend  of  Mr.  Browne's,"  he  said.  "  There  is  nobody  I  have 
a  higher  respect  for,  and  I  think  I  may  say  the  same  of  him. 
I  shouldn't  believe  anything  I  heard  against  her,  and  I  think 
it's  a  great  pity,  my  lady,  if  you'll  excuse  my  saying  so,  that 
you  should  take  your  opinions  about  her  from  Mrs.  Prentice, 
who'd  rather  give  people  a  bad  character  than  not,  instead  of 
judging  for  yourself.  I'll  leave  these  behind,  with  your  leave, 
and  wish  you  good-evening." 

He  put  down  the  packet  of  tracts  on  a  table,  made  a  bow 
and  went  out  of  the  room. 

"  It's  outrageous  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Prentice.  "  I  told  you, 
Lady  Wrotham,  what  sort  of  a  man  he  was.'* 


230  EXTON  MANOR 

Lady  Wrotham  was  too  much  surprised  by  the  turn  events 
had  taken  to  speak,  but  Browne,  very  red  in  the  face,  and  stut- 
tering somewhat,  rose  and  delivered  himself  thus  — 

"  Captain  Turner  is  independent,  and  not  very  polite,  and 
all  that,  but  he's  very  sound,  and  what  he  says  about  Mrs.  Red- 
cliffe  is  quite  true.  There's  no  better  woman  anywhere.  I 
think  you  will  say  so  when  you  know  her.  Lady  Wrotham." 

"  She  sent  a  very  impertinent  message  to  me,"  replied  the 
great  lady. 

"  What— Mrs.  Redcliffe  ?  "  exclaimed  Browne.  "  That's  a 
thing  she  couldn't  do  if  she  tried." 

"  It  was  the  girl  who  sent  the  message,"  explained  Mrs. 
Prentice.  "  Mrs.  RedclifFe  merely  approved  of  it ;  but  that 
was  bad  enough." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Lady  Wrotham,  "I  have  done  her  some 
injustice  in  my  thoughts.  She  seems  to  have  made  good 
friends.  When  she  comes  to  see  me — I  do  not  wish  to  see 
the  girl — I  shall  be  able  to  judge  for  myself.  We  must  leave 
it  there  for  the  present.  Captain  Turner  appears  to  be  a  diffi- 
cult person  to  make  friends  with,  Mr.  Browne.  I  can  forgive 
a  certain  amount  of  honest  brusqueness,  especially  in  the  case 
of  one  whose  birth  is  not  perhaps  of  the  highest." 

"  His  birth  is  all  right.  Lady  Wrotham,"  said  Browne. 
"  He  comes  of  very  good  stock,  and  his  education  is  better 
than  most  people's.  It's  his  way  to  pretend  he's  no- 
body." 

"  Well,  I  do  not  care  altogether  for  his  way.  And  if  he 
takes  a  pride  in  holding  himself  aloof  from  all  religious  in- 
fluences, as  seems  to  be  the  case,  I  don't  know  that  he  can  be 
called  a  very  satisfactory  tenant.  However,  we  can  talk  of 
that  later.  I  hope  you  will  be  able  to  be  present  at  our  little 
service  next  Wednesday,  Mr.  Browne." 

"  Wednesday,"  said  Browne,  in  deep  perturbation.  "  No, 
I'm  afraid  I  can't  on  Wednesday.     It's  a  busy  day." 


TURNER  AND  BROWNE  TAKE  SIDES      231 

"  But  your  work  is  usually  over  by  five  o'clock,  is  it 
not  ?  " 

Browne  hesitated.  "  Well,  yes  it  is,"  he  said  with  a  burst. 
"  But  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Lady  Wrotham,  I'd  rather  not 
come.  I  go  to  church  on  Sundays,  and  I  should  do  that  any- 
how to  set  an  example,  even  if  I  didn't  care  about  it.  But — 
well,  it  isn't  quite  in  my  line." 

Lady  Wrotham  drew  herself  up.  "  I  think  in  yourposition," 
she  said,  "you  ought  to  do  everything  you  can  to  help  in  what 
concerns  the  welfare  of  the  tenantry." 

"  I  do  do  everything  I  can,  that  lies  in  my  way.  But  I 
don't  mix  myself  up  in  their  religious  affairs." 

*'  Well,  of  course,  I  have  no  right  to  press  you.  But  I  am 
disappointed.  I  am  afraid  there  is  a  hard  struggle  before  me 
if  those  who  might  help  are  determined  to  stand  aloof.  Mrs. 
Prentice,  I  think  we  had  now  better  consult  together  as  to  ar- 
rangements." 

Browne  took  his  dismissal.  He  shook  hands  with  Lady 
Wrotham,  but  not  with  Mrs.  Prentice,  and  went  out.  His 
cart  was  waiting  at  the  door.  He  climbed  up  into  it,  gathered 
up  the  reins  and  drove  quickly  out  of  the  gate  house.  When 
he  was  out  of  hearing  of  the  groom  who  had  been  holding  his 
horse  he  exploded  in  a  series  of  forcible  ejaculations,  which 
gathered  in  vehemence  as  he  drove  up  the  road  towards  his 
house.  When  he  had  got  half  way  between  the  Abbey  and 
the  White  House  he  saw  Turner  on  the  road  in  front  of  him, 
walking  quickly  with  his  head  bent.  He  overtook  him. 
"  Where  are  you  off  to  ?  "  he  asked. 

Turner  grumbled  something  indistinguishable,  and  walked  on. 

"  Are  you  going  up  to  Heath  Gate  ?  "  asked  Browne  again. 
"'Cos  I'm  not  going  home  just  yet." 

*'  No,"  said  Turner  shortly. 

"  I'm  going  to  see  Mrs.  RedclifFe,"  said  Browne. 

Turner   faced   him  angrily.     *'  What   do  you   want  to  go 


232  EXTON  MANOR 

putting  your  oar  in  there  for?  "  he  said.  "You've  backed  up 
those  two  scandal-mongering  women,  and  you  ought  to  have 
the  decency  to  keep  away.     I'm  going  there  myself." 

"  Then  we'll  go  together.  It's  nonsense  to  say  I  backed 
them  up.     I  did  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"Well,  you  didn't  speak  out.  Spiteful  cats!  It's  that 
Prentice  woman  chiefly,  though  your  old  woman's  just  as  bad. 
And  you'd  have  told  them  so  if  you'd  got  any  pluck.  But  you 
haven't." 

"  I  did  tell  'em  so,  after  you'd  left.  I'm  as  angry  as  you 
are.  And  her  ladyship  actually  had  the  nerve  to  tell  me  that 
it  was  my  duty  as  a  land  agent  to  go  to  her  precious  prayer- 
meetings." 

"So  it  is.  You're  a  parasite,  as  I  told  you,  and  you've  got 
to  kow-tow  to  your  employers." 

"  She  isn't  my  employer,  and  Vm  not  going  to  take  on  a  lot 
of  tea-party  work  to  please  her.  I  do  my  duty  by  the  prop- 
erty, and  that's  all  any  one  has  a  right  to  ask  of  me." 

"  I  don't  care  what  you  do,  except  that  if  you  don't  show 
Mrs.  RedclifFe  that  you'll  stand  by  her  through  thick  and  thin 
I'll  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  you." 

"  I  told  you  I  was  going  in  now,  didn't  I  ?  You  cross- 
grained  fool !  What  do  you  want  to  go  for  me  for,  when 
we're  both  in  the  same  boat  ?  " 

"  Thank  goodness,  I'm  not  in  the  same  boat  as  you.  I've 
had  all  I  can  do  with  of  that  old  woman.  If  she  comes  up  to 
see  me  she'll  be  shown  the  door.  I  pay  my  rent,  don't  I  ? 
She's  no  right  to  interfere  with  me  in  any  way,  and  I'll  tell 
her  so  if  she  tries  it  on  again.  Fancy  giving  me  a  bundle  of 
tracts  !     I  suppose  you've  got  a  pocketful  of  them." 

"  No,  I've  not,"  replied  Browne.  "  And  I  said  I  shouldn't 
go  to  this  meeting.  Come  now.  Turner,  what's  the  good  of 
quarrelling  with  me  ?  You've  nothing  against  me.  I  haven't 
said  anything  about  the  way  you  behaved  to  her.     It  was  dev- 


TURNER  AND  BROWNE  TAKE  SIDES      233 

i'.ish  awkward  for  me.  Any  one  would  have  thought  you'd 
made  up  your  mind  to  offend  her." 

"  So  I  had.  I'd  heard  rumours  about  some  mischief  hatch- 
ing against  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  News  flies  fast  in  this  place,  and 
the  village  has  got  hold  of  it.  Kitcher  told  me  so.  I  watched 
when  I  first  brought  in  Mrs.  RedclifFe's  name,  and  I  saw  her 
face  and  that  of  the  other  cat  go  sour.  I  meant  to  give  them 
a  piece  of  my  mind  then,  and  I  did  it.  Well,  I'm  going  in 
here." 

They  had  come  to  the  gate  of  the  White  House,  Turner 
on  foot,  Browne  walking  his  horse  beside  him.  "Just  wait 
till  I  take  the  mare  into  the  home-farm,"  said  Browne,  "  and 
we'll  go  in  together." 

"  I'm  going  in  now,"  said  Turner,  and  he  walked  up  the 
drive. 

.  Mrs.  RedclifFe  and  Hilda  were  in  the  parlour.  Turner  came 
in  with  a  more  open  friendliness  than  was  his  wont.  "  Thought 
I'd  look  in  and  see  if  you  wanted  any  more  books  to  read,"  he 
said.  "  I've  got  a  new  lot  down.  I'm  very  late,  Mrs.  Red- 
clifFe, but  if  you  could  give  me  a  cup  of  tea  I  should  be 
obliged." 

"  Ring  the  bell,  Hilda,"  said  Mrs.  Redclifl^e.  "  Captain 
Turner,  I'm  very  pleased  to  see  you.  You  have  not  been 
near  me  for  weeks." 

"  Expect  you'll  see  a  good  lot  of  me  for  the  future.  I  gen- 
erally like  to  see  a  bit  more  company  in  the  Spring.  Wanted 
to  know  whether  you  and  Miss  Hilda  would  come  and  dine 
with  me  to-morrow.  We'll  have  a  rubber.  Suppose  I  must 
ask  Browne,  though  I  don't  care  for  him." 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  laughed.  "  What  should  you  say  if  anybody 
else  said  anything  against  him  ? "  she  said.  "  Yes,  thank 
you,  Captain  Turner,  we  shall  be  pleased  to  come." 

Hilda  had  said  nothing  since  Turner  arrived.  She  stood  by 
the    fireplace   watching   him   closely,  as   if  she  was  trying  to 


234  EXTON  MANOR 

make  out  from  the  side  view  of  his  face  how  far  he  couH  be 
trusted  as  a  loyal  friend.  She  opened  her  mouth  as  if  she  had 
something  to  say  about  her  mother's  acceptance  of  his  invita- 
tion, but  at  that  moment  Browne  came  into  the  room. 

His  greeting  was  as  friendly  as  that  of  Turner,  perhaps 
rather  more  so.  He  threw  himself  into  an  easy-chair  and 
mopped  his  brow,  according  to  his  custom.  *'Yes,  thanks, 
I'd  like  another  cup  of  tea,  please,"  he  said  in  answer  to  an 
inquiry.  "  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  will  you  and  Hilda  come  up  and 
dine  with  me  to-morrow  ?  We  haven't  had  a  rubber  of  Bridge 
for  a  long  time.     Turner's  coming." 

"No,  he  isn't,"  said  Turner.  "Mrs.  RedclifFe  and  Miss 
Hilda  are  coming  to  dine  with  me  to-morrow.  You  can  come 
too  if  you  like." 

"Well,  the  next  night,  then,"  said  Browne.  "I've  got 
some  new  potatoes." 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  accepted  this  invitation  also,  with  a  smile. 

"  Mother  dear,"  Hilda  broke  in,  "  it  is  very  kind  of  Captain 
Turner,  and  Mr.  Browne.  But  they  ought  to  know,  before 
we  accept,  that — that  we  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  Mrs. 
Prentice's  friends.     It  must  be  either  she  or  us." 

"  Hope  you  don't  call  me  Mrs.  Prentice's  friend,"  said 
Turner.     **  Can't  abide  the  woman." 

"  She's  no  friend  of  mine,"  said  Browne. 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  grew  serious.  "  Perhaps  Hilda  is  right," 
she  said.  "  Mrs.  Prentice  is  at  enmity  with  us,  over  a  definite 
cause,  and  I  must  say  now  that  we  are  at  enmity  with  her. 
Our  friends  are  bound  to  hear  of  what  has  caused  the  break, 
and  perhaps  it  will  be  better  that  they  shall  hear  it  from  us." 

"  Don't  want  to  hear  anything,"  said  Turner.  "  I've  heard 
all  I  want  already." 

"  And  so  have  I,"  said  Browne.  "  We're  old  friends,  Mrs. 
RedclifFe,  and  we'll  be  better  ones  still." 

"  Then    Mrs.    Prentice   has   already   begun   to  talk,"   said 


TURNER  AND  BROWNE  TAKE  SIDES       235 

Hilda.  "And  I  suppose  Lady  Wrotham  too.  To  think  that 
there  should  be  such  women  in  the  world  !  When  did  you 
hear  of  it — and  where  ?  " 

"Just  been  calling  on  the  old  lady,"  said  Turner,  *'  and 
Mrs.  Prentice  was  there.  Never  again.  You're  right.  Miss 
Hilda,  Mrs.  Prentice  ought  to  be  put  out  of  the  way.  She's 
not  fit  to  live.  But  why  worry  about  anything  she  says  or 
does  ?  We've  got  something  else  to  talk  about,  I  should 
hope." 

"  Then  you  are  on  our  side,"  said  Hilda,  "  absolutely,  with- 
out any  reservations  ?  " 

"  'Course  I  am.  You  ought  to  have  known  it.  And  so's 
Browne,  though  he's  too  lazy  to  say  so." 

"  It  doesn't  want  saying,"  said  Browne.  *'  Mrs.  RedclifFe 
knows  us  and  we  know  her." 

"You  are  two  very  kind  friends,"  said  Mrs.  RedclifFe  softly. 
"  And  I  have  never  thought  that  you  would  say  anything  else. 
I  am  glad  that  you  know.  I  am  sorry  that  it  was  not  known 
to  my  real  friends  long  ago." 

"  And  Lady  Wrotham  actually  told  you  what  she  has 
against  mother  ?  "  said  Hilda.  "  Told  two  men,  one  of  them 
a  stranger  to  her,  and  before  another  woman  !  I  wish  I  could 
tell  her  what  I  think  of  her." 

"No,  she  didn't,"  said  Browne.  "To  do  her  justice, she 
was  annoyed  with  Mrs.  Prentice  for  saying  anything." 

"  She  wasn't,"  said  Turner.  *'  They  were  both  as  bad  as 
one  another." 

"  Then  Mrs.  Prentice  told  you  ?  " 

"  She  would  have  done  if  Lady  Wrotham  hadn't  stopped 
her,"  said  Browne. 

"  Then  you  were  not  told  ?  You  don't  know  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
RedclifFe. 

"We  didn't  want  to  listen  to  her  lies,"  said  Turner 
"  Neither  of  us." 


236  EXTON  MANOR 

"  'Course  not,"  Browne  chimed  in. 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  she  said  in 
a  low  voice,  ''  It  is  well  to  know  what  loyal  friends  one  has. 
But  if  you  do  not  know  what  Lady  Wrotham  has  discovered 
about  me,  I  will  tell  you  myself." 

'*  We  don't  want  to  know,"  said  Turner.  "  What's  it  got 
to  do  with  us  ?  " 

And  Browne  repeated  his  former  remark,  '*  You  know  us, 
Mrs.  RedclifFe,  and  we  know  you." 

"  You  will  hear  it  from  somebody,"  she  said,  "  and  I  would 
rather  you  heard  it  from  me.  Lady  Wrotham  knew  what 
others  in  England  have  not  known,  that  I  was  my  husband's 
second  wife,  and  his  first,  who  died  within  a  year  of  her  mar- 
riage, was  my  elder  sister." 

There  was  a  pause.  ''  Well,"  said  Turner, "  now  Browne's 
curiosity  is  satisfied.  And  what  on  earth  is  there  in  that  to 
make  a  fuss  about  ?  'Pon  my  word,  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  that 
woman  ought  to  be  lynched.  She's  got  a  tongue  that  would 
blacken  an  archangel." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  have  quite  gathered  the  signifi- 
cance of  what  I  have  told  you,"  said  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  Browne, 
it  was  clear,  had  not  at  first  done  so,  but  apparently  his  brain 
had  now  brought  him  to  a  conclusion,  for  his  face  cleared. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said.  "  But,  hang  it  all,  you  know !  Well, 
thank  you  for  telling  us,  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  though  it  wouldn't 
have  made  any  difFerence  if  you  hadn't.  You  know  us  and 
we  know  you." 

"  Browne  has  gone  through  a  good  deal  this  afternoon," 
said  Turner.  "  You  mustn't  mind  his  repeating  himself. 
Well,  I  must  be  ofF,  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  I'm  dining  at  Oakhurst 
to-night  and  I  must  get  home.  Then  I  shall  see  you  all  to- 
morrow evening — usual  time.     Good-bye." 

He  shook  hands  with  a  warm  grasp  and  departed.  Hilda 
went  with  him  to  the  outer  door.     "  You're  very  kind.  Cap- 


TURNER  AND  BROWNE  TAKE  SIDES      237 

tain  Turner,"  she  said  j  "  I  was  sure  you  and  Mr.  Browne 
would  be,  but  I  am  very  pleased  all  the  same." 

He  turned  to  her  with  a  chuckle.  "  You  gave  her  a  piece 
of  your  mind,  didn't  you  ?  "  he  said.  "  Told  her  to  tell  the 
old  woman  to  go  to  the  deuce,  eh  ?  " 

"  Well,  not  that  exactly,"  said  Hilda,  smiling  at  him.  "  But 
whatever  I  said  she  deserved — both  of  them  deserved." 

"  Deserve  !  They  deserve  hanging.  You  keep  it  up.  Miss 
Hilda.  Don't  you  let  'em  worry  your  mother.  She's  the 
best  mother  you'll  ever  have,  or  any  one  else  either.  Good- 
bye." 

He  disappeared  along  the  garden  path  as  if  he  had  been  shot 
out  of  a  catapult,  and  Hilda  returned  to  the  parlour. 

She  found  Browne  and  her  mother  in  deep  talk.  "  I  assure 
you,  Mrs.  RedcIifFe,"  Browne  was  saying,  "  that  it  was  pretty 
nearly  all  Mrs.  Prentice's  fault.  I  don't  want  to  defend  Lady 
Wrotham.  She  annoyed  me  infernally  this  afternoon,  and  she 
ought  not  to  have  let  it  out,  to  Mrs.  Prentice  of  all  people. 
But  to  do  her  justice  she  did  prevent  the  other  woman  blurt- 
ing it  out  when  she  wanted  to,  and  said  she  shouldn't  have 
told  anybody  if  she'd  known  it  was — not  gen'ly  known." 

"  Are  you  trying  to  excuse  Lady  Wrotham  ?  "  asked  Hilda. 

"  Mr.  Browne  is  quite  right  to  excuse  her  if  there  is  an  ex- 
cuse," said  Mrs.  Redcliffe.  "  And  I  am  glad  to  hear  what  he 
says." 

"  It's  only  just  on  that  one  point  I'd  excuse  her,"  said 
Browne.  "  I  put  most  of  the  trouble  down  to  Mrs.  Prentice. 
I  don't  deny  that  her  ladyship  was — well,  annoyed  with  you, 
because,  of  course,  Mrs.  Prentice  had  been  making  all  the 
mischief  she  could.  She  repeated  something  that  Hilda  had 
said  about  Lady  Wrotham  to  her  yesterday  and  made  the 
most  of  it." 

Hilda  laughed.  *'  I'm  glad  of  that  at  any  rate,"  she  sai^t 
**  But  it  was  I   who  said   it,  and  not  mother.     Why   Lady 


238  EXTON  MANOR 

Wrotham  should  have  the  impertinence  to  be  annoyed  with 
her  I  don't  know." 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Prentice  I  don't  defend  at  all,"  said  Browne. 
"  But  Lady  Wrotham  I  do,  up  to  a  certain  point.  She  said 
herself  that  she  was  glad  to  hear  she  had  been  mistaken  about 
you,  and  said  when  you  went  to  see  her,  she — she " 

"She  should  judge  for  herself.  Was  that  it,  Mr. 
Browne?  " 

Browne  hesitated,  and  Hilda  broke  in.  "  Go  to  see  her, 
indeed !     That  is  a  nice  thing  to  suggest." 

"  I  cannot  go  to  see  Lady  Wrotham,  Mr.  Browne,"  said 
Mrs.  RedclifFe,  and  Hilda,  "  I  should  think  not,  indeed  !  " 

"Well,  you  know  best,"  said  Browne.  "  I  only  thought — 
however,  you'll  do  what  you  like,  of  course." 

Soon  afterwards  he  took  his  leave.  Hilda  did  not  accom- 
pany him  to  the  door.  "  Fancy  suggesting  that  you  should 
call  on  Lady  Wrotham  !  "  she  said.  "  It  seems  to  me  that 
Mr.  Browne  is  trying  to  be  your  friend  and  Lady  Wrotham's 
at  the  same  time.      He's  not  like  Captain  Turner." 

"  He  is  an  honest  and  loyal  gentleman,"  said  Mrs.  Red- 
clifFe. "You  must  remember,  Hilda,  that  it  is  not  possible 
for  him  to  break  off  from  Lady  Wrotham  altogether,  and  I 
don't  see  at  all  why  he  should.  We  must  not  be  too  exacting 
to  our  friends.  I  think  we  are  very  fortunate  in  having  two 
such  generous  ones  as  Captain  Turner  and  Mr.  Browne." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

RUMOUR,  AND    A    MEETING 

Rumour,  with  its  thousand  tongues,  soon  spread  the  news 
about  Mrs.  RedclifFe  that  Lady  Wrotham  had  brought  down 
to  Exton.  It  is  not  necessary  to  suppose  that  iVlrs.  Prentice 
took  the  lead  in  setting  it  flying,  although,  when  she  was 
addressed  on  the  subject,  she  made  no  secret  of  her  opinions 
— opinions,  she  said,  which  it  grieved  her  to  have  to  hold 
but  which  hold  she  must  if  she  was  to  keep  her  self-respect 
as  a  religious  woman.  The  village  had  got  hold  of  it  some- 
how ;  possibly  the  first  thin  thread  of  fact  had  been  drawn  by  a 
servant,  either  at  the  Abbey  or  the  vicarage,  through  a  keyhole, 
but  this  was  never  known.  The  village  gossiped  and  talked 
scandal,  and  a  few  of  the  more  virtuous  matrons  sniffed  at 
Mrs.  Redcliffe  in  the  open  street.  But  there  being  not  the 
slightest  genuine  feeling  against  marriage  with  a  deceased 
wife's  sister  in  the  abstract,  there  could  be  none  against  a  lady, 
otherwise  much  respected  and  liked,  who  had  contracted  such 
a  marriage  years  before.  And  Mrs.  RedclifFe  had  her  warm 
champions  amongst  the  villagers,  as  well  as  amongst  those  in 
higher  places,  who  expressed  themselves  strongly  against  Mrs. 
Prentice's  known  attitude  towards  her.  Finally,  when  it 
became  known  that  in  Australia,  where  Mrs.  RedclifFe  had 
married,  the  law  was  as  it  was,  popular  opinion  set  strongly 
against  Mrs.  Prentice  for  stirring  up  a  fuss  about  nothing,  and 
Mrs.  RedclifFe's  position  with  her  humbler  neighbours  was  put 
on  a  firmer  basis  of  liking  than  ever.  Until  this  state  of  feel- 
ing settled  down  there  was  very  little  that  could  disturb  her, 
but  a  good  deal  of  unobtrusive  sympathy  which  showed  the 
general  respect  and  liking  in  which  she  was  held. 

339 


i46  EXTON  MANOR 

But  with  the  surrounding  gentry  she  had  to  go  through  a 
good  deal.  There  were  very  few  who  took  the  view  that  Mrs. 
Prentice's  strict  code  had  imposed  upon  her,  none  indeed  with 
whom  she  was  at  all  intimate.  But  curiosity  and  gossip 
fluttered  about  her  like  ugly  birds.  It  was  the  first  subject  to 
be  introduced  by  those  who  now  came  flocking  to  give  Lady 
Wrotham  a  welcome  to  Exton  Abbey,  but  Lady  Wrotham 
would  have  none  of  it.  She  was  very  sorry  that  she  had  put 
it  about,  she  said.  At  least  she  had  not  put  it  about,  as  she  had 
had  no  idea  that  it  was  not  known.  She  would  prefer  not  to 
discuss  it.  Every  one  seemed  to  speak  well  of  Mrs.  RedclifFe, 
and  she  for  her  part  had  nothing  to  say  against  her.  Mrs. 
RedclifFe  had  not  yet  done  her  the  honour  of  calling  on  her 
and  it  was  not  her  habit  to  talk  over  the  affairs  of  people 
she  did  not  know. 

Yes,  certainly,  her  visitors,  or  most  of  them,  would  say. 
Nothing  could  really  be  said  against  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  She 
lived  very  quietly  and  did  not  go  about  much,  but  those  who 
did  know  her  liked  her,  and  the  girl  was  a  delightful  creature. 

Lady  Wrotham  had  nothing  to  say  about  the  girl.  She 
rather  fancied  her  manners  were  not  of  the  best,  but  she 
did  not  know  her,  and — perhaps  the  subject  might  be 
changed. 

At  the  bottom  of  her  heart  a  feeling  of  deep  annoyance  was 
growing  against  Mrs.  Prentice,  who,  she  was  fully  assured, 
was  responsible  for  spreading  the  report,  although  that  lady 
had  vehemently  denied  it.  It  was  intolerable  that  she  should 
be  forced  to  take  part  in  this  petty  local  gossip,  and  be  con- 
sidered, besides,  to  be  the  origin  of  it.  And  it  annoyed  her  to 
have  to  keep  this  resentment  to  herself,  for,  although  she  dis- 
believed the  assurances  that  were  given  her,  she  was  not  yet 
prepared  to  say  so,  and  Mrs.  Prentice  was  now  proving  herself 
a  valuable  go-between  in  the  designs  she  had  for  converting 
the  inhabitants  of  Exton  to  the  views  of  the  Women's  Refor- 


RUMOUR,  AND  A  MEETING  241 

mation  League.  She  had  quite  made  up  her  mind,  however, 
that  if  the  day  came  when  Mrs.  Prentice  played  her  false  in 
those  matters  which  she  had  so  much  at  heart,  she  would 
speak  her  mind  in  a  way  that  would  surprise  that  lady. 

Foiled  at  the  fountain  head,  the  country  neighbours  as  a 
rule  made  their  way  on  leaving  the  Abbey,  those  who  wished 
to  treat  the  disclosure  as  an  agreeable  scandal  to  Mrs.  Pren- 
tice, and  the  better  disposed  to  Mrs.  RedclifFe  herself.  The 
former  gained  more  for  their  trouble,  for  they  had  a  more  or 
less  detailed  and  not  entirely  colourless  account  of  Mrs.  Pren- 
tice's memorable  interview  with  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  and,  as  a 
wind  up,  Hilda's  defiance  of  Lady  Wrotham,  which  lost 
nothing  in  the  telling.  The  latter  got  small  satisfaction. 
They  found  Mrs.  RedclifFe  serene  but  uncommunicative,  and 
Hilda  watchful  and  ready  to  take  ofFence  at  the  smallest  hint 
of  what  was  in  their  minds.  There  were  one  or  two  who 
were  sincerely  sorry  for  what  had  happened.  These  made 
no  fishing  references,  but  were  more  than  usually  cordial,  as 
Turner  and  Browne  had  been,  and  they  came  away  with  the 
conviction  that  Mrs.  RedclifFe  was  a  woman  in  a  thousand 
and  shamefully  used  by  malicious  tongues.  So  that  even  in 
this  series  of  visitations  there  were  bright  spots,  and  Hilda 
was  not  able  to  feel  that  all  the  world  was  against  them,  as 
in  her  more  fiery  moods  she  would  perhaps  have  liked  to 
feel. 

In  the  middle  of  these  happenings,  the  first  of  Lady  Wro- 
tham's  private  religious  services,  which  were  to  form  the 
antidote  to  the  poison  of  the  Vicar's  teaching,  took  place  in 
the  dining-hall  of  the  Abbey.  As  a  start  ofF  she  invited  a 
clerical  friend  of  her  own  persuasion  from  London  to  stay 
with  her  and  conduct  the  proceedings.  He  was  a  good  man 
and  a  gentleman,  but  Mrs.  Prentice's  gorge  rose  at  him,  for 
he  was  everything  that  she  had  hitherto  despised.  He  wore 
a  moustache  and  a  layman's  collar,  and  he  spoke  with  a  sort 


242  EXTON  MANOR 

of  pious  bleat  which  she  found  it  hard  to  bear.  But  she  had 
compensations.  Lady  Wrotham  was  particularly  friendly 
to  her  that  afternoon,  and  called  her  "  my  dear  "  in  face  of 
the  assembly. 

Mrs.  Capper  was  there,  dressed  very  smartly,  and  anxious 
to  assist  in  guiding  the  worshippers  to  such  seats  as  should 
best  indicate  their  respective  importance  in  the  social  scale ; 
but  her  ladyship's  servants  were  so  used  to  these  gatherings, 
and  managed  things  in  such  a  cold-blooded,  efficient  way, 
that  there  was  no  occasion  for  her  efforts,  and  she  had  to 
content  herself  with  a  seat  in  the  front  row,  to  which  she 
was  shown  by  virtue  of  her  smart  clothes.  There  was  a  con- 
siderable gathering  of  women,  but  no  men,  Mrs.  Prentice 
having  found  a  difficulty  in  persuading  them  to  come,  and 
Lady  Wrotham  having  decided  after  all  that  they  were  not 
wanted.  Most  of  the  women  were  there  out  of  curiosity, 
and  treated  the  occasion  as  a  mild  sort  of  entertainment,  of 
which  the  tea  was  the  crowning  point  and  the  service  a  not 
unreasonable  form  of  payment.  The  clerical  leader  moved 
them  somewhat,  and  there  was  nothing  controversial  in  his 
address,  except  my  implication.  The  meeting  would  have 
been  innocuous  and  something  better,  if  it  had  not  been 
announced — chiefly  by  Mrs.  Capper,  taking  her  cue  from  the 
great  lady's  original  statement  to  her — that  it  was  intended 
as  a  counterblast  to  the  orthodox  church  services.  As  it  was, 
signs  of  cleavage  began  to  show  themselves  immediately  on 
the  dispersal  of  the  congregation.  There  was  not  wanting 
a  party,  led  by  Mrs.  Capper,  who  declared  themselves  on 
Lady  Wrotham's  side  against  the  goings  on  of  the  Vicar, 
although  few  of  them  had  had  any  quarrel  with  him 
hitherto  ;  and  there  were  others  who  took  his  part  warmly, 
many  of  them  out  of  antagonism  to  Mrs.  Prentice,  whose 
going  over  to  the  enemy  was  commented  on  in  no  mild  terms. 

For  it  was,  of  course,  noticeable  that  the  Vicar  had  not 


RUMOUR,  AND  A  MEETING  243 

been  present  at  the  meeting,  was  indeed,  at  the  time  it  was 
being  held,  equably  pursuing  his  pastoral  duties  at  the  further 
end  of  the  Manor.  He  had  been  asked  as  a  matter  of  form, 
but,  as  it  had  been  made  clear  to  him  that  his  acceptance 
would  be  considered  as  a  definite  act  of  resignation  of  the 
position  he  was  known  to  hold,  he  had  naturally  not  accepted 
the  invitation.  But  this  did  not  prevent  Lady  Wrotham 
from  describing  him  to  her  intimate  correspondents  as  a 
minister  who  held  sullenly  aloof  from  every  Christian  effort 
not  set  on  foot  by  himself.  An  invitation  to  dine  on  the 
evening  of  the  meeting,  to  meet  Lady  Wrotham's  clerical 
friend,  he  did  accept,  somewhat  to  her  surprise.  She  had 
not  yet  given  up  all  hopes  that,  he  would  be  moved  by  his 
wife  to  a  realization  of  his  errors,  and  was  unwilling  as  yet 
to  enter  into  an  open  quarrel  in  which  the  mildest  social  truce 
would  become  impossible,  but  she  would  have  preferred  that 
he  should  refuse  her  invitation. 

The  Vicar  and  his  wife  walked  down  to  the  Abbey  together 
at  eight  o'clock.  They  were  chatting  on  unimportant  sub- 
jects— a  country  clergyman  and  his  wife  going  out  peaceably 
to  dine  at  the  great  house  of  the  parish,  the  lady  with  her 
prim  finery  bunched  up  under  a  waterproof,  her  husband  in 
soft  felt  hat  and  black  overcoat,  carrying  her  evening  shoes 
in  his  pocket — to  all  appearance  good  friends,  one  in  the 
pursuit  of  duty  and  the  enjoyment  of  the  simple  pleasures 
that  lighten  such  a  lot  as  theirs.  Who  could  have  told  that 
there  was  a  black  cloud  between  them,  growing  ever  bigger 
and  threatening  to  destroy  the  comfort  of  a  companionship 
that  had  afforded  for  five  and  twenty  years,  if  not  unruffled 
peace,  as  high  an  average  of  contentment  as  falls  to  the  lot  of 
most  people  ? 

Mrs.  Prentice  was  certainly  not  tasting  contentment  at 
this  time.  It  is  true  that  she  possessed,  as  far  as  she  knew, 
the  approval  of  Lady  Wrotham,  and  was  on  terms,  as  she 


144  EXTON  MANOR 

hoped,  of  permanent  intimacy  with  the  great  lady,  closer 
than  any  one  around  her  enjoyed.  And  it  looked  as  if  she 
were  in  a  fair  way  of  paying  out  Mrs.  RedclifFe  for  her  mon- 
strous behaviour,  for  rumour  was  now  busy  with  that  lady's 
name,  and  opinion  had  not  yet  settled  down  in  her  favour,  as 
it  did  later.  But  the  question  was  whether  these  two  gratify- 
ing facts,  taken  together,  balanced  the  loss  of  her  husband's 
confidence,  which  had  been  for  the  last  few  days  entirely 
withdrawn  from  her. 

William  was  behaving  to  her  in  a  way  he  had  never  done 
before.  There  had  been  an  angry  scene  between  them  when 
he  had  come  home  from  his  interview  with  Mrs.  RedclifFe. 
He  had  been  whole-hearted  in  his  defence  of  that  lady  and 
most  violent  in  his  condemnation  of  her,  his  wedded  wife. 
Fortified  by  her  alliance  with  Lady  Wrotham  and  the  purity 
of  her  own  motives,  she  had  retorted  on  him  angrily,  and  in- 
formed him  in  a  counterblast  that  she  had  been  reconsidering 
her  religious  position,  and  discovered  that  in  many  things, 
although  in  none  for  which  he  could  blame  her,  she  had 
been  in  error ;  and  that,  since  his  beliefs  led  him  to  behave 
no  better  than  a  savage,  she  had  had  enough  of  them,  and 
proposed  to  try  a  simpler  and,  as  far  as  she  could  judge,  a 
more  efficacious  form  of  Christianity.  He  had  left  her  with- 
out a  word,  and  she  had  congratulated  herself  on  having 
gained  a  complete  victory  over  him. 

But  her  satisfaction  had  been  short-lived.  When  they  had 
next  met  he  had  treated  her  as  if  nothing  had  passed  between 
them,  with  a  measure  of  coldness  certainly,  but  not  with 
displeasure.  This  had  gone  on  ever  since,  and  it  had  not 
suited  her.  He  had  peremptorily  declined  to  discuss  any 
question  with  her  which  had  to  do  either  with  his  own  work 
or  her  new  activities.  "  You  are  taking  your  own  line," 
he  had  said  on  the  first  occasion  on  which  she  had  en- 
deavoured  to  do  so,  "and   it  is  a  line  of  which  I  heartily 


RUMOUR,  AND  A  MEETING  245 

disapprove.  I  will  not  talk  to  you  about  it.  As  long  as  you 
are  doing  all  you  can  to  wreck  my  work  here  and  give  the 
lie  to  all  your  previous  convictions,  that  is  the  only  condition 
on  which  we  can  go  on  living  under  the  same  roof."  This 
was  the  onJy  time  on  which  he  had  broken  through  his 
aloofness  to  speak  directly,  and  he  had  spoken  so  contemp- 
tuously that  his  words  had  unpleasantly  affected  Mrs.  Pren- 
tice's vanity.  Since  then  there  had  been  no  communication 
between  them  except  on  merely  surface  subjects. 

But  for  a  husband  and  wife,  who  had  hitherto  worked 
together  with  constant  give  and  take  and  frequent  wordy 
adjustments  of  harness,  to  live  on  such  terms  as  these  was 
not  possible  without  mutually  antagonistic  developments 
going  on  beneath  the  surface.  They  were  existing  as  on 
a  slope,  and  not  a  plane.  The  Vicar  knew  that  a  struggle 
was  before  him,  of  which  he  could  not  yet  foresee  the  end, 
and  it  disturbed  him  greatly  to  have  to  shut  up  in  his  own 
mind  the  thoughts  and  fears  that  exercised  him  concerning 
it,  disturbed  him  greatly,  too,  that  she  with  whom  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  talk  over  such  problems  as  these,  with 
the  certainty,  at  any  rate,  of  community  of  aim,^and  the 
advantage  that  came  from  self-expression,  should  now  actu- 
ally be  working  apart  from  and  against  him.  It  is  true  that 
he  had  taken  up  his  present  attitude  to  her,  knowing  what 
she  was,  with  the  conviction  that  it  would  finally  bring  her 
back  to  her  proper  allegiance  j  but  the  days  went  on  and  she 
still  acted  perversely,  and  he  was  beginning  to  take  a  dark 
view  ©f  the  future.  At  present,  and  until  Lady  Wrotham 
should  fulfill  her  threat  of  taking  action,  his  wife  was  alone 
responsible  for  the  disturbance  of  his  life  and  work,  and  it  is 
not  surprising  that  an  ever  increasing  sense  of  bitterness 
should  have  been  growing  up  against  her  in  his  mind,  or 
that  she,  pursuing  her  course,  should  have  gained  no  happi- 
ness from  it. 


246  EXTON  MANOR 

Lady  Wrotham's  dinner  party  of  four  was  hardly  likely, 
under  the  existing  circumstances,  to  afford  more  than  refresh- 
ment of  the  body.  She  herself,  with  the  traditions  of  hospi- 
tality with  which  she  had  been  brought  up,  would,  if  she 
had  had  her  own  way,  have  kept  the  conversation  clear  of 
subjects  in  which  a  possibility  of  disagreement  existed.  And 
the  Reverend  Mr.  Dacre,  to  do  him  justice,  had  no  intention 
of  promoting  discord.  But  his  mind  was  full  of  the  message 
he  conceived  it  his  life's  work  to  spread,  and  if  he  were  to 
talk  at  all  he  must  talk  on  that  subject  and  no  other.  The 
advice  of  St.  Paul,  sublimely  tactless,  if  it  is  to  be  inter- 
preted as  those  who  chiefly  apply  it  believe,  was  his  warrant 
for  treating  the  differences  of  Christians  as  if  they  did  not 
exist.  He  must  be  instant  in  season,  out  of  season,  and 
the  only  difference  he  could  make  between  those  who  were 
outside  the  truth  and  those  who  presumably  accepted  it,  was 
in  exhorting  the  former  as  from  pope-like  authority,  and 
assuming  that  the  latter  held  his  own  interpretation  of  dogma 
and  no  other.  The  Vicar,  agreeing  where  he  could,  silent 
where  he  could  not,  unwilling  to  oppose  his  own  views  to 
statements  and  aspirations  implicitly  denying  them,  held 
his  own  as  well  as  he  could  in  a  conversation  having  to  do 
with  the  missionary  zeal  of  Mr.  Dacre  and  his  associates, 
of  whom  Mr.  Dacre  assumed  him  to  be  one.  *'  Surely,"  said 
the  harassed  Vicar  to  himself,  "there  is  some  hypocrisy 
here !  The  man  must  know  that  I  do  not  agree  with  his 
views.  He  has  been  brought  here  into  my  parish  for  that 
very  reason."     And  he  wished  the  evening  over. 

The  two  clergymen  remained  in  the  dining-room  only  a 
few  minutes  after  the  ladies  had  left  them.  Mr.  Prentice 
refused  wine  and  the  cigarette  offered  to  him  by  the  butler, 
for  fear  of  drawing  upon  himself  a  rebuke  from  the  Low 
Churchman,  and  his  nerves  were  not  soothed  by  his  absti- 
nence.    He  had  nothing  to  say,  and  sat  silent  until  the  other, 


RUMOUR,  AND  A  MEETING  247 

awaking  from  a  reverie,  looked  at  him  across  the  table  with 
a  happy  smile,  and  said,  "  I  think  we  were  blessed  in  our 
little  service  this  afternoon.  It  seemed  to  be  a  time  of  re- 
freshment to  many." 

"  I  hope  it  was,"  replied  the  Vicar,  "  but  of  course  you 
know  that  it  was  held  to  a  great  extent  as  a  protest  against 
my  own  services,  and  you  were  asked  to  conduct  it,  Mr. 
Dacre,  because  the  doctrines  I  teach,  as  the  Vicar  of  the 
parish,  are  not  acceptable  to  Lady  Wrotham  ? " 

Mr.  Dacre  looked  shocked.  "  But  surely,"  he  said,  "  the 
simple  Bible  reading  and  prayer  and  the  singing  of  gospel 
hymns  which  we  enjoyed  this  afternoon  can  only  help  in  the 
work  of  grace  !  You  cannot  feel,  as  some  parish  ministers 
unfortunately  do,  that  a  fellow-labourer  in  the  same  vineyard 
is  interfering  in  your  godly  work,  by  seeking  simply  to 
strengthen  your  own  exhortations  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  one  of  the  parish  ministers  who  do 
think  so,"  replied  the  Vicar.  "  And  I  should  like  to  ask 
you  candidly,  Mr.  Dacre,  whether  you  would  not  feel  the 
same  if  our  positions  were  reversed.  Supposing  you  were 
the  vicar  of  this  parish  and  were  teaching  to  the  best  of  your 
ability  the  doctrines  in  which  you  believe,  and  I  were  to  be 
brought  in  to  explain  to  your  parishioners  that  those  doc- 
trines were  false,  that  the  change  from  a  state  ©f  sin  to  a 
state  of  grace  comes  not  at  conversion  but  at  baptism,  and 
that  the  appointed  and  only  safe  spiritual  food  for  Christians 
is  given  through  the  sacraments  of  the  Church,  would  you  not 
feel  that  I  was  interfering  with  your  work  and  doing  anything 
rather  than  strengthen  your  own  influence  ?  " 

"  Oh,  but  those  doctrines  are  unscriptural.  There  is  no 
warrant  for  them." 

*'  But  you  must  be  well  aware  that  they  are  held  by  many 
thousands,  and  are  to  be  found  everywhere  in  the  Church  of 
England.     You  must  know  that  I  for  one  hold  them,  and  that 


248  EXTON  MANOR 

it  is  to  put  my  people  in  the  way  of  thinking  them  un- 
scriptural  that  you  are  here." 

"  If  that  is  so " 

"  But,  Mr.  Dacre,  don't  you  know  that  it  is  so  ?  I  would 
willingly  have  met  you  on  friendly  terms,  and  even  been  glad 
to  talk  over  religious  matters  with  you,  if  it  had  been  recog- 
nized by  both  of  us,  as  it  ought  to  have  been,  that  there  are 
differences  of  opinion  between  us,  although  we  have  so  much 
fundamentally  in  common.  But  all  through  dinner  you  have 
chosen  to  assume  with  regard  to  me  what  you  must  know 
quite  well  is  not  the  case,  that  I  am  in  entire  agreement  with 
your  views,  and  you  must  forgive  me  for  saying  that  it  does 
not  seem  to  me  to  be  honest." 

Mr.  Dacre  looked  genuinely  grieved.  "  An  accusation  of 
dishonesty  ought  not  to  be  lightly  made,"  he  said. 

"  I  do  not  make  it  lightly.  Would  you  think  it  honest  of 
me  in  a  like  position  to  take  it  for  granted  that  you  held  the 
Catholic  view  of  the  Church — were,  if  you  like  to  put  it  so,  a 
High  Churchman — knowing  all  the  time  that  you  were  not  f 
I  am  sure  you  would  have  protested  at  once." 

"  Certainly  I  should.  And,  my  dear  friend,  if  I  have  un- 
wittingly caused  you  offence,  I  sincerely  ask  your  pardon. 
But  we  are  both  working  for  God,  according  to  the  light 
He  gives  us,  and  His  grace  is  wide  enough  to  cover  all  our 
differences." 

*'  I  think  it  is,"  said  the  Vicar,  '*  if  we  rely  on  it,  instead  of 
fighting  one  another." 

"  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Dacre,  with  a  sweet  smile,  "  that  it 
is  only  you  who  want  to  fight."    And  then  they  joined  the  ladies. 

The  Vicar  and  his  wife  left  shortly  afterwards,  much  to 
Lady  Wrotham's  relief,  as  she  would  not  have  been  willing 
to  forego  her  usual  family  prayers,  nor  put  one  of  her  guests 
to  the  discomfort  of  being  obliged  to  take  part  in  a  service  of 
which  he  had  expressed  his  disapproval. 


RUMOUR,  AND  A  MEETING  249 

Mrs.  Prentice,  on  the  walk  home,  warmed  by  the  good 
cheer  of  which  she  had  partaken  and  the  memory  of  an  inti- 
mate chat  with  the  great  lady,  of  which  her  own  share  had 
been  most  successfully  carried  through,  had  an  impulse,  rather 
pathetic,  of  affection  towards  her  husband.  She  tried  to  take 
his  arm,  and  said,  "  Mr.  Dacre  is  a  very  earnest  man.  Don't 
you  think  so,  William  ?  " 

The  Vicar  uncrooked  his  elbow,  and  let  his  wife's  hand 
fall  to  her  side.  "  I  think  a  good  many  things  about  Mr. 
Dacre,"  he  said  coldly.  "  But  they  would  hardly  interest  you 
at  present,  Agatha." 

Mrs.  Prentice  drew  herself  into  her  shell,  and  spoke  no 
more. 


CHAPTER  XX 

A   RAILWAY    JOURNEY,    AND    WHAT    FOLLOWED 

Mr.  Frederick  Prentice,  in  pursuance  of  his  promise  to 
pay  a  week-end  visit  to  his  home  at  no  distant  date,  had  him- 
self conveyed  to  Waterloo  Station  one  Friday  afternoon  about 
a  month  after  Easter,  and  presented  himself  at  the  first-class 
booking-office.  He  found  himself  forestalled  there  by  a  lady 
of  more  than  usual  personal  attractions,  who  was  asking  for  a 
ticket  to  Exton  as  he  came  up.  Behind  her  stood  her  maid 
holding,  amongst  other  travelling  effects,  a  dressing-bag  with 
the  initials  N.  O'K.  embossed  on  it.  Fred  Prentice  grasped 
the  situation  immediately  and  experienced  the  pleasureable 
sensation  which  is  felt  by  young  men  of  an  admiring  and 
susceptible  nature  when  confronted  with  female  charms  of  a 
high  order.  He  congratulated  himself  on  at  last  coming  face 
to  face  with  Mrs.  O'Keefe,  of  whose  good  looks  he  had  heard 
much,  but  not,  as  he  now  thought,  more  than  enough,  and  he 
instantly  decided  that  he  would  not  wait  for  an  introduction 
until  he  reached  home,  but  would  deny  himself  indulgence  in 
the  smoking  of  tobacco  during  the  coming  journey,  and  travel 
in  Mrs.  O'Keefe's  company. 

The  way  was  made  unexpectedly  easy  for  him,  for  when 
the  lady  came  to  pay  for  her  ticket  she  discovered  that  she 
had  just  enough  money  in  her  purse  to  enable  her  to  do  so, 
but  none  over  for  a  ticket  for  her  maid.  She  must  have 
given  a  sovereign  in  mistake  for  a  shilling  to  her  cabman,  it 
was  decided  in  hurried  consultation  between  the  two  of  them ; 
she  remembered  that  he  had  driven  off  quickly  without  thank- 
ing her,  which  she  had  thought  odd  at  the  time,  because  she 
had  doubted  whether  the  three  shillings  she  thought  she  had 

350 


A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY  251 

given  him  was  really  enough  for  all  that  distance  and  all  that 
luggage.  And,  of  course,  she  had  not  taken  his  number,  and 
even  if  she  had,  there  would  not  be  time  to — and  what  on 
ea«h  were  they  to  do  now  ?  Fred  came  forward  at  this 
point  and  introduced  himself,  and  put  the  matter  straight. 
Mrs.  O'Keefe  was  profusely  grateful  to  him.  She  could  not 
think  what  she  should  have  done  without  him.  He,  of  course, 
made  light  of  his  services,  but  as  they  walked  to  the  train 
together,  she  explaining  and  he  sympathizing,  diffidence  on 
either  side  was  completely  washed  away,  and  it  seemed  only 
natural  that  they  should  settle  themselves  in  the  same  carriage 
for  the  journey,  and  even  admit  some  anxiety  as  to  the  in- 
trusion of  a  third  party. 

They  had  the  carriage  to  themselves  as  far  as  Archester, 
and  drank  straw-coloured  tea  in  entire  amity  out  of  the  basket 
Fred  had  ordered,  talking  all  the  time.  Fred  asked  permis- 
sion to  light  a  cigarette,  and  received  it;  and  the  evening 
papers  with  which  they  had  both  provided  themselves  re- 
mained folded  on  the  seats  beside  them.  Never  was  a  more 
agreeable  opening  of  friendship  between  a  good-looking,  pleas- 
ant-spoken young  man  and  a  beautiful  young  woman — if  only 
a  looker-on,  sympathetic  on  the  point  of  such  openings,  had 
not  known  what  we  as  onlookers  do  know. 

After  the  subject  of  the  substituted  sovereign  had  been  dis- 
cussed in  all  its  bearings,  the  conversation  turned  to  Exton 
and  its  inhabitants. 

"  So  much  has  happened  there  since  I  have  left,"  said  Norah 
O'Keefe.  "  I  suppose  Lady  Wrotham  is  fully  installed  now, 
and  has  begun  to  lead  everything  and  everybody.  I  am  dying 
to  see  her." 

"  I  think  she  has  already  begun  to  be  rather  tiresome  about 
the  church  services,"  said  Fred.  "  I  had  a  letter  from  my 
father.  He  didn't  say  much,  but  I  gathered  that  she  objected 
to  a  good  deal  and  had  told  him  so." 


252  EXTON  MANOR 

"  I  haven't  heard  from  anybody  while  I  have  been  avi^ay, 
except  one  letter  from  Hilda  RedclifFe  just  after  I  left,  and 
that  was  before  Lady  Wrotham  came.  I  have  written  to  her 
once  or  twice  but  she  hasn't  answered.  I  can't  think  why. 
Have  you  seen  anything  of  the  RedclifFes  lately  ?  " 

"  I  saw  them  when  I  was  down  at  Exton." 

"  I  hope  you  like  them  as  much  as  I  do.  Mrs.  RedclifFe 
is  the  dearest  woman,  and  Hilda  is  just  as  good,  only  rather 
impetuous,  because  she  is  young  and  hasn't  seen  much  of  the 
world  yet." 

"  Not  as  much  as  you  have,"  suggested  Fred,  with  a  con- 
quering smile. 

"Well,  that  is  hardly  to  be  expected,"  she  said,  more 
seriously,  "  although  I  am  not  much  older  than  she.  But 
don't  you  think  she  is  a  delightful  girl  ?  " 

Fred  said  he  did  think  so,  and  turned  the  conversation  again 
towards  the  personality  of  his  companion,  in  whom  he  exhibited 
a  sympathetic  interest  skilfully  adapted  to  make  her  talk  about 
herself.  And  yet  he  had  set  out  on  his  journey  an  hour  before 
hugging  himself  at  the  thought  of  seeing  Hilda  Redcliffe  so 
soon,  and  if  he  had  been  told  that  he  should  travel  to  Exton  in 
the  company  of  a  lady  who  wished  to  talk  about  her  and  praise 
her,  would  have  thought  himself  happy.  Norah  O'Keefe 
brought  in  her  name  again  shortly  after,  and  again  met  with  a 
perfunctory  agreement  and  an  apparent  unwillingness  to  pursue 
the  subject  further.  She  looked  at  him  with  some  measure  of 
appraisement  in  her  eyes.  She  was  Hilda  Redcliffe's  mtimate 
friend  and  must  have  heard  something  of  her  doings  during 
those  Christmas  holidays,  which  Fred  had  described  regretfully 
as  the  best  of  vanished  seasons.  She  said  no  more  about 
Hilda,  but  told  him  a  good  deal  about  herself,  rather  more,  per- 
haps, than  she  might  have  done  had  he  not  betrayed  such  a  keen 
interest  in  all  she  did  tell  him.  And  when  the  train  reached 
Greathampton  at  the  end  of  an  hour  and  a  half's  run,  Fred 


A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY  253 

ventured  to  say  that  he  never  remembered  the  journey  passing 
so  quickly,  and  she  did  not  contradict  him. 

They  walked  up  and  down  the  platform  while  they  waited 
for  the  slow  train  by  which  they  were  to  finish  their  journey. 
The  sea-smell  attacked  their  nostrils  freshly,  and  the  closing 
dusk  gave  a  tender  turn  to  brisk  thoughts  of  Spring  and  pleas- 
ure. The  sweet  face  of  the  girl,  for  she  was  nothing  more 
than  a  girl,  framed  in  the  waves  of  her  bright  hair  and  the  furs 
about  her  neck,  her  pretty  clothes,  and  her  air  of  frank  com- 
radeship, heightened  by  the  mysterious  feminine  charms  of  her 
youth  and  beauty,  went  to  Fred's  brain  like  wine.  Episodes 
in  his  life,  in  which  he  had  experienced  something  of  these 
same  sensations,  prepared  him  to  give  a  welcome  to  an  intoxi- 
cation which  transcended  them  all.  His  feelings  towards  Hilda 
had  rested  on  other  influences,  although  he  told  himself  after- 
wards that  he  had  tried  to  impart  to  them  this  same  glamour, 
and  failed.  His  love  for  her,  such  as  it  was,  went  out  without 
the  flicker  of  an  effort  to  hold  its  own,  and  he  gave  himself 
over  entirely  to  this  new  influence,  was  indeed  swept  off  his 
feet  by  it  and  swam  in  deep  waters  without  a  struggle  to  re- 
gain the  shore.  By  the  time  the  train  had  dropped  them  at  the 
wayside  station  which  served  Exton  and  its  neighbourhood, 
and  Norah  had  driven  off  in  her  brougham  and  he  in  the  vicar- 
age cart,  he  told  himself  that  he  had  come  to  the  crisis  of  his 
life,  and  sat  lapped  in  a  fervour  of  sweet  thoughts  as  he  drove 
home  across  the  twilit  heath  and  through  the  verdurous  glooms 
of  the  forest,  looking  back  every  now  and  then  at  the  twin 
lamps  of  the  carriage  following  him,  and  picturing  to  himself 
the  wonderful  creature  who  sat  within  it  enshrined  in  the 
dusk. 

One  may  pause  a  moment  to  consider  the  first  glamorous 
steps  of  such  a  passion,  tending  of  itself  to  no  baseness,  and 
wonder  how  far  the  self-absorption  it  engenders  will  avail  to 
muffle   the   call  of  honour.     Pity,  that  the  summons  which 


254  EXTON  MANOR 

brings  the  deeper  natures  to  harbour,  wafts  the  lighter  to  no 
sure  anchorage. 

Fred  was  not  sorry  that  his  mother  had  not  come  to  the 
station  to  meet  him,  as  was  her  wont,  but  he  was  a  little  sur- 
prised, although  he  did  not  give  the  matter  much  thought  until 
he  reached  home.  There  he  was  soon  informed  about  the  af- 
fairs which  were  disturbing  the  peace  of  Exton.  His  father 
was  away  attending  a  meeting  at  Oakhurst,  and  would  not  be 
back  until  nine  o'clock  supper,  and  his  mother  was  glad  to  have 
the  hour  which  intervened  clear  for  a  talk  with  him.  She  told 
him  that  she  had  intended  to  come  to  the  station  to  meet  him, 
but  had  had  to  go  and  see  Lady  Wrotham  about  something  of 
importance. 

"How  do  you  get  on  with  Lady  Wrotham,  mother?  "  he 
asked.  "  You  have  told  me  nothing  about  her  in  your  letters. 
In  fact,  you  have  hardly  written  to  me  since  I  was  here 
last." 

"I  have  been  very  much  occupied,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice. 
"  But  there  is  a  great  deal  to  tell  you,  Fred.  We  are  passing 
through  a  very  anxious  time  here,  and  I  didn't  want  to 
write  about  things  that  we  could  talk  over  when  you  came 
down." 

"  Lady  Wrotham  is  making  a  fuss  about  the  services,  isn't 
she  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  that  she  is  doing  that  exactly.  She 
is  quite  out  of  sympathy  with  ritualism  of  any  kind,  but  she  is 
a  very  religious  woman  and  very  anxious  that  the  people  should 
— should  be  religious  too.  I  find  it  a  great  help  to  have  her 
advice  and  encouragement  on  what  I  try  to  do  myself." 

"  And  what  about  father  ?     Where  does  he  come  in  ?  " 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  your  father  has  not  been  like  him- 
self lately.  He  never  talks  to  me  about  things,  and  he  holds 
himself  aloof  from  all  the  efforts  Lady  Wrotham  and  I  are 
making." 


A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY  255 

"  Well,  I  don't  wonder,  mother,  if  she  is  trying  to  dictate 
to  him  as  to  how  he  shall  conduct  his  own  services.  He  told 
me  that.  But  how  does  it  suit  you  .?  Surely  you  are  keener 
on  what  I  call  the  frills  than  father  is  ! " 

"  I  have  come  to  believe,  Fred,  that  you  are  right  in  think- 
ing them  excrescences.  I  do  not  care  for  the  word  frills. 
There  is  none  of  that  at  Hurstbury,  and  Lady  Wrotham  draws 
a  very  attractive  picture  of  the  way  all  the  people  go  to  church 
there  and  attend  any  services  and  meetings  got  up  for  their 
benefit.  I  think  that  if  the  same  sort  of  spirit  existed  here  it 
would  be  a  good  thing  for  the  parish." 

"  Well,  that  is  a  change  of  face,  mother  !  " 

Mrs.  Prentice  was  offended.  "That  is  not  at  all  the  way  to 
look  at  it,  Fred,"  she  said.  "  It  is  very  distressing  to  me  to 
have  to  go  against  your  father  in  these  or  any  other  matters, 
but  I  must  follow  my  conscience,  even  when  it  is  difficult  to 
do  so,  and  even  in  the  short  experience  I  have  had  I  can  see 
that  there  is  more  vital  religion  amongst  the  evangelicals  than 
the  ritualists.  I  don't  want  to  say  anything  against  your 
father — it  would  not  be  right  to  do  so,  to  you — but  really  he  is 
so  obstinate  in  his  ideas,  and  so  incapable  of  judging  where  the 
right  is,  that — that  it  is  most  difficult  for  me  at  present." 

She  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  She  felt  herself 
sorely  tried,  and  it  was  a  relief  to  her  to  pour  out  her  trouble 
to  her  son.  Fred,  his  mind  filled  with  other  thoughts,  gave 
but  slight  attention  to  the  disclosures  that  were  being  made  to 
him.  He  knew  his  mother  very  well,  and  could  form  a  pretty 
clear  idea  of  the  reasons  that  lay  behind  her  various  actions. 
If  she  was  on  awkward  terms  with  his  father  for  the  time 
being,  she  would  come  round,  as  she  had  done  before  ;  and, 
anyhow,  the  affairs  on  which  they  were  at  issue  were  not  of 
much  importance.  But  her  next  words  effectually  gained  his 
attention. 

"  I  didn't  know  he  had  written  to  you,"  she  said.     "  He 


256  EXXON  MANOR 

tells  me  nothing  now.  But,  if  he  has,  he  will  probably  have 
told  you  of  this  disgraceful  business  about  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  He 
takes  a  most  unchristian  line  there,  and  one  that  I  cannot  for- 
give him  for,  considering  all  the  circumstances,  and  how  I 
have  been  mixed  up  in  it." 

Fred  stared  at  her.  "  Mrs.  Redcliffe  !  Disgraceful  busi- 
ness !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  What  on  earth  do  you  mean,  mother  ? 
No,  he  told  me  nothing  of  that." 

"  Well,  it  turns  out  that  Mrs.  RedclifFe  has  been  living  here 
all  this  time  on  false  pretences.  She  is  not  Mrs.  RedclifFe  at 
all.  I  don't  know  what  she  is,  but  she  has  no  right  to  that 
name.  I  will  go  on  protesting  as  long  as  I  have  breath  that 
she  is  not  properly  married." 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  exclaimed  Fred.  "  Mrs.  RedclifFe  of 
all  people ! " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  want  to  convey  anything  worse  than  the 
reality,  if  anything  could  be  worse.  Goodness  knows  I  have 
suffered  enough  for  daring  to  hold  the  opinions  that  I  do.  She 
is  a  deceased  wife's  sister.  Mr.  RedclifFe  married  her  elder 
sister  and  then  went  through  a  form  of  marriage  with  her." 
"  Oh,  is  that  all  ?  "  said  Fred. 

"  ALL  !  "  repeated  his  mother  passionately.  "  And  is  it 
not  enough  ?  The  Church  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  such 
a  wicked  travesty  of  marriage  as  that,  and  I  will  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it  either.  And  do  you  think  that  if  Mrs.  RedclifFe 
had  not  been  thoroughly  ashamed  of  it,  she  would  have  hidden 
it,  as  she  has,  from  those  who  have  allowed  themselves  to 
make  friends  with  her  ?     Of  course  she  would  not." 

"  I  don't  know.  But  surely,  mother,  you  are  not  going  to 
quarrel  with  Mrs.  RedclifFe  because  of  this  !  How  did  you 
find  it  out  ?  " 

"  Lady  Wrotham.  knew  of  it  and  was  of  course  naturally 
annoyed  to  come  here  and  find  the  woman  sitting  on  her  very 
door-step,  so  to  speak.     She  is  very  charitable,  a  good  deal 


A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY  257 

more  so  than  I  should  be  in  her  case,  but  she  has  been  upset 
by  the  insolence  of  that  girl,  and  I  could  see  she  would  give  a 
lot  to  have  them  out  of  the  place.  And  she  is  coming  down 
here,  an  old  lady,  to  end  her  days  in  peace,  to  be  treated  like 
that !     It  is  too  bad." 

"  Why,  what  has — has  Hilda  done  ?  " 

"  She  was  extremely  insolent  to  me,  and  so  was  Mrs.  Red- 
clifFe  when  they  found  out  that  I  knew  about  it,  and  the  girl 
had  the  impudence  to  shout  after  me  a  rude  message  to  give  to 
Lady  Wrotham." 

"  Which  you  gave  ?  " 

"  She  dragged  it  out  of  me.  But  I  have  done  with  them  for 
ever,  and  so  have  a  good  many  other  people  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, though,  as  might  be  expected,  Captain  Turner — a  pretty 
captain,  he  is — and  Mr.  Browne,  who  is  about  as  stupid  as  he 
can  be,  and  always  follows  the  other  man's  lead,  have  turned 
themselves  into  her  champions  and  are  always  at  the  White 
House,  as  thick  as  thieves.  And,  as  I  say,  your  father  for 
some  unaccountable  reason,  chooses  to  put  all  his  convictions 
behind  his  back  and  say  that  nothing  has  happened  to  make 
any  difference  in  his  friendship  with  the  Redcliffes.  He  has 
the  sense,  though,  not  to  go  there  very  often,  and  I  suppose 
we  must  be  thankful  for  that  small  mercy.  I  do  hope,  Fred, 
that  you  will  not  make  it  more  difficult  for  me  by  being  seen 
at  the  White  House,  and  about  with  the  Redcliffes.  There  is 
no  reason  at  all  why  you  should,  for  the  short  time  you  will 
be  here." 

Fred  thought  for  a  moment.  He  did  not  want  to  go  to  the 
White  House.  He  would  hardly  have  known  what  to  do  or  to 
say  when  he  got  there.  At  the  same  time,  he  did  not  want  to 
appear  to  be  keeping  away  because  of  what  had  come  out 
about  Mrs.  Redcliffe.  He  thought  that  his  mother  absurdly 
overrated  the  significance  of  her  discovery,  and  that  it  was  hard 
on  Mrs.  Redcliffe  to  treat  her  with  such  hostility.     He  ought 


258  EXTON  MANOR 

to  show  her  that  he  was  far  from  being  in  sympathy  with  that 
hostility.  And  he  would  do  so,  if  occasion  served.  In  the 
meantime  he  had  something  of  far  greater  import  to  concern 
him. 

"  There  is  nothing  particular  to  take  me  to  the  White 
House,"  he  said.  "  I  say,  mother,  I  came  down  from  Water- 
loo with  Mrs.  O'Keefe.  She  really  is  charming,  and  just  as 
beautiful  as  you  said."  He  had  not  the  art  to  stop  a  blush  as 
he  introduced  the  name  of  the  fair  one,  but  Mrs.  Prentice  was 
too  occupied  to  notice  it. 

"  Oh,  she  has  come  home,  has  she  ?  "  she  said.  "  That 
will  complicate  matters,  for  the  Redcliffes  have  managed  to 
worm  themselves  in  there — I  suppose  because  she  has  a  handle 
to  her  name.  Really,  the  snobbishness  of  some  people  is  past 
all  belief.  I  should  like  to  tell  her  how  matters  stand  before 
she  hears  a  garbled  account  from  her  precious  friends." 

"  Why  don't  you  go  in  and  see  her  to-night  after  supper ,? 
I'd  go  with  you." 

A  pang  of  shame  struck  him  as  he  spoke.  He  was  willing 
that  Hilda  and  her  mother  should  be  vilified,  if  that  would 
gain  him  an  hour  in  the  company  he  desired.  But  the  pang 
was  instantly  swallowed  up  in  the  eagerness  of  his  wish. 

*'  I  think  perhaps  we  might  do  that,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice. 
"She  has  been  away  for  a  month,  and  could  hardly  take  it 
amiss." 

"Well,  I  must  go  and  unpack  my  clothes,  and  dress,"  said 
Fred.     "  I  suppose  father  will  be  home  soon  ?  " 

"  Not  for  half-an-hour,"  said  his  mother.  "  Don't  go  yet, 
Fred.  I  have  such  a  lot  to  talk  to  you  about.  And  you 
needn't  dress  to-night.     It  is  only  supper." 

"  I  think  I'll  dress.  I  shall  be  more  comfortable,"  he  said, 
and  he  rose  from  his  chair.  He  was  not  going  to  present 
himself  to  the  object  of  his  desire  late  in  the  evening  in  a 
tweed  suit.     And  he  wanted  to  get  away  from  his  mother,  and 


A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY  259 

think.  She  Insisted  upon  coming  up  to  his  room  to  unpack 
for  him,  but  he  got  rid  of  her  in  ten  minutes  and  arrayed  him- 
self in  his  finest,  to  the  accompaniment  of  tumultuous  thoughts, 
in  which  the  troubles  of  the  RedclifFes,  his  once  desired  friends, 
found  no  place. 

The  Vicar  gave  his  son  an  affectionate  welcome  when  he 
reached  home,  but  he  looked  worried  and  anxious.  The  talk 
over  the  supper  table  dragged.  Mrs.  Prentice  and  her  husband 
were  hardly  on  speaking  terms,  and  the  remarks  they  addressed 
to  one  another  were  perfunctory.  And  Fred  was  in  that  early 
stage  of  passion  in  which  a  blissful  reverie  is  so  constantly  de- 
manded by  the  situation  that  it  is  apt  to  be  indulged  in  even 
when  the  presence  of  others  would  seem  to  require  some  effort 
to  throw  off  for  a  time  the  delightful  incubus.  The  meal  did 
not  take  very  long,  and  as  Mrs.  Prentice  rose  from  the  table, 
she  said,  "  If  we  are  gomg  down  to  see  Mrs.  O'Keefe,  Fred, 
I  think  we  ought  to  go  directly.     It  is  half-past  nine." 

Fred  needed  no  second  bidding,  and  sprang  up  from  his  seat. 
But  the  Vicar  stopped  him.  "  Wait  a  minute,"  he  said. 
"  Has  Mrs.  O'Keefe  come  back  yet  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  came  down  with  her  this  evening,"  said  Fred. 

"  Why  should  you  want  to  go  and  see  her  at  this  time  of 
the  evening  ?  " 

"  She  has  been  away  for  a  month,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice, 
"  and  I  thought  it  would  be  kind  just  to  go  over  and  see  how 
she  is." 

"  I  won't  have  it,"  said  the  Vicar.  "  You  may  leave 
Mrs.  O'Keefe  to  find  out  for  herself  what  is  happening 
here." 

"  Indeed,  William,"  began  Mrs.  Prentice  indignantly,  but 
he  broke  in  on  her  hotly  ;  "  I  tell  you,  I  won't  have  it, 
Agatha.  I  have  left  you  alone  to  take  your  own  way  so  far, 
but  this  is  too  much.  You  are  not  to  go  to  Mrs.  O'Keefe 
to-night." 


26o  EXTON  MANOR 

"Well,  really 


"  I  definitely  forbid  you  to  go.  Sit  down,  Fred,  and  drink 
your  wine." 

The  Vicar  was  not  to  be  disobeyed  by  wife  or  son  when  in 
this  mood.  Fred  sat  down  obediently,  in  deep  depression,  and 
Mrs.  Prentice  left  the  room  with  as  close  an  appearance  of 
dignified  offence  as  she  could  effect. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  been  told  of  what  has  been  discovered 
about  Mrs.  Redcliffe,"  said  the  Vicar,  when  she  had  shut  the 
door  behind  her.  "  She  is  in  no  way  to  blame,  and  it  dis- 
tresses me  beyond  measure  that  your  mother  should  take  the 
view  she  does  of  what  has  happened.  A  good  woman  like 
that,  who  has  made  a  mistake  in  her  life — from  the  strictest 
point  of  view  it  was  nothing  more  than  that — ought  to  be 
treated  with  extra  sympathy  if  she  is  in  trouble  about  it,  and 
not  persecuted.  I  won't  say  more,  but  I  am  greatly  disturbed 
over  what  is  happening." 

"  I  don't  see  what  she  can  be  blamed  for,"  said  Fred,  and 
there  was  silence  for  a  time. 

The  Vicar  roused  himself.  "  Well,  my  boy,"  he  said,  *'  I 
am  glad  to  see  you  home  again.  And  how  are  you  getting  on  ? 
Getting  through  a  lot  of  work,  I  hope." 

"  Oh,  yes,  father;  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you — I've  got  hold  of 
something.  If  I  can  go  in  for  it  it  ought  to  be  a  jolly  good 
thing  for  me — it  isn't  a  chance  you'd  get  every  day." 

"  Well,  what  is  it,  Fred  ?  I  suppose  you  mean  you  want  to 
put  money  into  something.  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  do 
that,  you  know,  till  you  get  called." 

"  If  I  waited  till  then  I  should  lose  this  chance.  And  it's 
one  in  a  thousand.  \  fellow  I  know  well  is  going  in  for  it 
and  he  gave  me  the  opportunity.  He  could  easily  have  got 
somebody  else." 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"It's    the    rights  in   a   patent.     My  friend  has  got  hold 


A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY  261 

of  a  German  inventor  who  has  discovered  colour  photog- 
raphy." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Fred  !  " 

"  But,  father,  I've  seen  it.  It  is  the  most  wonderful  work. 
There's  no  doubt  about  it.  There's  an  enormous  fortune  in 
it.  I  said  a  patent,  but  it  isn't  exactly  that.  If  it  was 
patented,  the  secret  would  be  given  away.  This  German 
found  it  out  by  chance,  and  he  says  the  chances  are  a  million 
to  one  against  anybody  else  hitting  on  it.  We  just  want  two 
thousand  pounds.  My  friend — Salter  his  name  is — he  was  at 
Oxford  with  me — will  put  in  one  thousand  and  I  should  have 
to  put  in  the  other.  Then  we  should  work  the  thing  and  take 
a  third  share  each.     The  German  hasn't  got  any  money." 

"  I  don't  think  it  sounds  the  sort  of  thing,  Fred,  that  you 
ought  to  sink  almost  every  penny  you  have  in.  Supposing  this 
German  is  a  fraud." 

"  But  he  isn't.  He's  done  what  he  says  he  can  do.  I've 
seen  it  It's  wonderful.  There's  nothing  like  it.  There  are 
all  the  colours,  perfect ;  it  is  like  looking  at  a  real  scene." 

"  Have  you  got  one  of  his  pictures  here  ?  " 

"  No.  I  meant  to  bring  one  down  to  show  you.  But  he 
only  has  three  of  them.  It's  an  expensive  process — at  least 
it  costs  as  much  to  do  one  as  to  do  hundreds,  and  his  money 
gave  out.     He  can't  begin  again  till  he  gets  it  all  settled  up." 

"  H'm.  Well,  of  course  it  may  be  all  right.  If  he  has 
really  discovered  proper  colour  photography,  there  ought  to  be 
a  lot  in  it,  as  you  say.  We  will  talk  about  it  again,  Fred — I 
must  go  into  my  study  now — and  see  what  can  be  done.  I 
shall  have  more  time  to-morrow." 

Fred  sat  a  little  longer  at  the  table.  With  a  certain  fortune 
awaiting  him,  and  love  smiling  on  his  path,  he  felt  himself  one 
of  the  most  favoured  of  mortals. 

If  Mrs.  Prentice  had  succeeded  in  her  intention  of  calling 


262  EXTON  MANOR 

on  Mrs.  O'Keefe  that  evening,  she  would  not  have  found  her. 
Norah  had  learnt  of  what  had  befallen  her  friends  before  she 
had  been  long  in  her  house,  and  immediately  after  dinner  she 
had  attired  herself  and  summoned  her  maid  to  accompany 
her  to  the  White  House.  There  had  been  no  occasion  for 
explanations  or  discussions.  The  three  women  had  fallen  on 
one  another's  necks  and  shed  a  few  tears  together.  Then 
she  had  told  them  of  her  visits  and  adventures,  sitting  with  her 
hand  clasped  in  Hilda's,  and  returned  home  at  eleven  o'clock, 
leaving  behind  her  the  solace  of  her  warm  Irish  heart. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

TWO    VISITS 

The  embargo  which  the  Vicar  had  set  upon  his  wife's  visit 
to  Mrs.  O'Keefe  was  considered  by  Mrs.  Prentice  to  have  re- 
moved itself  automatically  by  the  next  morning.  It  was  really 
of  very  great  importance  that  she  should  see  Mrs.  O'Keefe  at 
once,  for  there  was  no  telling  what  might  happen  if  Mrs.  Red- 
clifFe  and  Hilda  were  to  pounce  down  and  get  their  talons  into 
her.  She  would  at  any  rate  be  put  into  quite  a  false  position, 
and  Mrs.  Prentice,  apart  from  a  natural  desire  to  get  the  bet- 
ter of  her  opponents,  would  be  sorry  from  altruistic  motives 
that  this  should  happen  to  one  whom  she  honoured  with  her 
friendship,  and  quite  intended,  as  a  reward  for  good  behaviour, 
that  Lady  Wrotham  should  also  honour  with  as  much  friend- 
ship as  was  desirable.  This  was  how  the  matter  presented  it- 
self to  her,  and  she  resolved  to  visit  Mrs.  O'Keefe  directly 
her  husband  should  have  shut  himself  up  in  his  study,  which 
on  Saturday  morning  he  was  accustomed  to  do  at  half-past  nine 
o'clock.  Not  that  she  wished  to  hide  her  intention  from  him  ; 
she  hoped  she  knew  what  was  due  to  him  better  than  that. 
But  these  constant  bickerings  and  this  unmanly  violence  were 
painful,  and  to  be  avoided  if  possible. 

She  had  not  intended,  either,  to  disclose  her  purpose  to 
her  son,  but  Fred  lay  in  wait  for  her  after  breakfast  and 
asked  her  with  something  rather  sheepish  in  his  expression 
if  she  was  thinking  of  calling  on  Mrs.  O'Keefe,  and,  when 
she  hesitated,  said,  "  I  may  as  well  stroll  down  with  you  if 
you  are  going."  So  it  was  arranged  that  they  should  go 
together  in  half-an-hour's  time,  and  Mrs.  Prentice  retired  to 
set  on  foot  the  domestic  enterprises  of  the  day  with  some* 

263 


264  EXTON  MANOR 

thing  to  think  about  in  the  intervals  of  hei  •'  ordering." 
Could  it  be  possible  that  there  was  more  in  Fred's  desire 
to  accompany  her  on  a  visit  to  Mrs.  O'Keefe  than  the  mere 
pleasure  of  his  mother's  society  ?  Experience  reminded  her 
that  he  was  not  as  a  rule  over-anxious  to  accompany  her  on 
her  expeditions,  and  more  frequently  than  not  excused  him- 
self from  so  doing  when  invited.  The  entrance  of  a  grati- 
fying idea  into  her  mind  took  away  discomfort  from  that 
reminder.  He  certainly  seemed  very  desirous  of  seeing  Mrs. 
O'Keefe.  Was  it  possible  that  he  had  already  fallen  a  victim 
to  her  charms,  which  even  Mrs.  Prentice  admitted  to  be  of 
no  mean  order  ?  Odd,  that  such  a  possibility  had  never  yet 
entered  her  mind !  Possibly  because  of  Mrs.  O'Keefe's 
widowhood.  But  after  all  she  was  quite  young  still,  a  year 
or  two  younger  than  Fred  himself.  She  must  be  well  off, 
from  the  way  in  which  she  lived.  She  was  beautiful  and 
well-born.  The  Honourable  Mrs.  Frederick  Prentice  !  It 
would  certainly  sound  well.  By  the  bye,  would  she  still  be 
the  Honourable,  if  she  married  again  ?  Mrs.  Prentice  was 
not  sure,  but  could  easily  find  out.  A  pity  if  it  were  not  so, 
but  even  if  not  the  advantages  would  be  great.  Truly  this 
was  a  gratifying  subject  for  reflection,  where  reflection  on 
other  developments  of  the  moment  were  beginning  to  be 
somewhat  depressing,  in  spite  of  apparent  success.  So  Mrs. 
Prentice  got  through  her  ordering  as  quickly  as  possible,  and 
turned  these  thoughts  over  in  her  mind  as  she  put  on  her  hat 
and  coat  in  her  bedroom,  and  then  went  down  into  the  hall 
where  Fred  was  impatiently  waiting,  determined  to  use  her 
eyes  and  ears  to  advantage. 

Nothing  of  course  was  further  from  her  intention  at 
present  than  to  let  Fred  see  that  her  eyes  were  opened.  She 
talked  in  quite  an  ordinary  manner  of  Mrs.  O'Keefe  as  they 
walked  together  the  few  yards  that  divided  the  gate  of  the 
Vicarage    from   the    front   door  of  the  Street  House  on  the 


TWO  VISITS  265 

other  side  of  the  road,  but  from  Fred's  mode  of  answering 
her,  offhand  as  it  was,  gathered  enough  even  in  that  short 
space  to  confirm  her  suspicions.  "  I  think  we  will  ask  Mrs. 
O'Keefe  to  dine  with  us  to-night,"  she  said,  as  they  stood 
waiting  for  admission,  and  Fred's  "  Yes,  do,  mother  !  "  was 
quite  what  she  had  expected. 

The  door  was  opened  by  Bridget,  Mrs.  O'Keefe's  elderly 
Irish  cook-housekeeper.  She  gazed  at  Mrs.  Prentice  with  a 
broad  wooden  face,  and  did  not  respond  to  that  lady's  affable 
smile  as  she  said,  "  Good-morning,  Bridget.  Is  your  mistress 
at  home  ?  " 

"  Not  at  home,"  replied  Bridget. 

Mrs.  Prentice  was  a  little  taken  aback.  The  unpleasant 
thought  crossed  her  mind  that  Mrs.  O'Keefe  might  even  now 
be  on  her  way  to  the  White  House,  and  that  her  early  visit 
ought  to  have  been  still  earlier. 

"  Gone  out  already  ?  "  she  said.  "  Dear  me  !  I  particu- 
larly wanted  to  see  her.  Will  she  be  long,  Bridget  ?  I 
might  wait " 

"  Not  at  home,"  repeated  Bridget,  with  the  same  expres- 
sion, or  lack  of  it. 

The  shadow  of  another  unpleasant  thought  just  crossed 
Mrs.  Prentice's  mind.     But  that  was  impossible. 

"  Where  has  she  gone  and  how  long  will  she  be  ? "  she 
asked,  more  peremptorily. 

Bridget's  face  broke  into  meaning.  "  She's  gone  no- 
where," she  said  ;  "  but  she's  not  at  home.  Shure,  in  high 
society  that's  understood  well  enough,  and  I'd  have  nothing 
else  to  say  if  you  were  to  keep  me  here  all  day,  Mrs.  Pren- 
tice, ma'am." 

Then  the  impossible  had  happened.  But  no,  it  must  be 
the  woman's  stupidity.  Mrs.  Prentice  summoned  another 
smile.  "  I  see,"  she  said.  *'  Your  mistress  is  tired  after 
her  journey  and  does  not  wish  to  see  visitors.     You  are  quite 


266  EXTON  MANOR 

-ight,  Bridget,  to  shield  her  from  intrusion.  But  just  go 
and  tell  her,  my  good  woman,  that  Mrs.  Prentice  would  like 
to  see  her  for  a  few  minutes — and  Mr.  Frederick  Prentice. 
I  am  sure  your  orders  do  not  extend  to  me." 

Bridget  still  stood  immovable  at  the  door.  "  Shure, 
nothing  was  said  about  young  Mr.  Prentice,"  she  said. 
"  He's  welcome  to  come  in  if  he  likes.  But  '  I'm  not  at 
home  to  Mrs.  Prentice  if  she  calls,  Bridget,  and  tell  the 
other  maids  so,'  was  the  orders  I  received,  and  the  orders  I'll 
follow,  sugar  or  vinegar." 

The  exact  meaning  of  the  final  qualification  escaped  Mrs. 
Prentice  in  the  consternation  produced  by  what:  had  preceded 
it.  *' There  must  be  some  mistake,"  she  said,  after  draw- 
ing herself  up  in  offended  dignity,  and  glaring  at  Bridget. 
"  I  shall  write  to  Mrs.  O'Keefe,"  and  she  turned  on  her 
heel. 

Bridget  was  not  in  the  least  subdued  by  her  manner. 
"  Won't  you  come  in  now .? "  she  said  to  Fred.  "  The 
mistress  is  in  the  garden." 

Mrs.  Prentice  turned  round.  "  You  had  better  go  in,  I 
think,  Fred,"  she  said,  "and  just  explain  what  has  hap- 
pened. It  is  of  no  use  my  doing  anything  more  in  face 
of  this  woman's  stupidity.  I  shall  certainly  complain  to  Mrs, 
O'Keefe  of  it." 

"  Thank  you  for  nothing,  ma'am,"  said  Bridget  cheer- 
fully, as  she  stood  aside  to  give  entrance  to  Fred.  "  Cats 
must  scratch  and  moles  burrow.  Step  in  here,  yer  honour, 
and  I'll  tell  the  mistress." 

Fred  was  left  alone  for  five  minutes  or  so  in  the  little 
room  just  off  the  hall  into  which  he  had  been  shown.  His 
mind  was  somewhat  disturbed,  but  it  was  more  with  annoy- 
ance against  his  mother  than  anything.  Of  course  Mrs. 
O'Keefe,  as  the  intimate  friend  of  the  Redclifl^es  that  she 
had  acknowledged  herself  to  him,  would  take  their  side  in 


TWO  VISITS  267 

the  present  crisis,  and  he  could  well  believe,  both  from  what 
he  knew  of  her  and  from  what  she  had  told  him,  that  his 
mother  had  so  behaved  that  it  was  impossible  for  any  one 
who  did  sympathize  with  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  to  do  anything  but 
refuse  parley  with  her  altogether.  It  was  very  annoying 
that  it  should  have  happened  thus  just  at  this  particular  time, 
but  it  was  fortunate,  at  any  rate,  that  the  refusal  did  not  at 
present  extend  to  him.  He  would  have  to  be  very  careful 
to  use  this  rather  questionable  opportunity  to  advantage,  for 
if  he  failed  to  do  so  it  might  be  difficult  to  secure  another. 

He  gave  himself  up,  so  far  as  the  fluttering  of  expectation 
in  his  heart  would  allow  him,  to  an  eager  inspection  of  the 
room.  He  was  in  one  of  the  chapels  of  the  goddess's  temple, 
a  chapel  sacred  to  her  more  homely  occupations.  It  was  the 
cosiest  of  little  chapels.  A  basket  of  needlework  stood  by  an 
easy-chair  on  one  side  of  the  bright  fire,  and  another  easy- 
chair  stood  on  the  other  side,  the  two  together  suggesting  a 
delightful  picture  of  intimacy,  in  which  the  lady  was  repre- 
sented at  her  sewing  and  a  friend,  happily  ensconced,  talking 
to  her  and  watching  her  face  bent  over  her  work.  Here  were 
her  books,  many  of  them  beautifully  bound — she  read  poetry 
— good  poetry — her  writing-table,  crowded  with  silver  knick- 
knacks.  A  useful  little  room,  not  furnished  in  the  main  with 
an  eye  to  effect,  but  pretty  all  the  same,  and  with  evidences 
not  only  of  taste  but  of  some  wealth.  It  was  crowded  with 
photographs,  photographs  of  the  sort  of  people  with  whom  Fred 
liked  best  to  be  associated  and  with  whom  he  considered  him- 
self most  at  home,  some  of  the  women  in  Court  finery,  many 
of  the  men — the  photographs  of  men  were  a  little  too  numer- 
ous to  please  him  altogether — in  uniform.  The  one  in  a  big 
tortoise-shell  and  silver  frame  on  the  writing-table  of  a  young 
man  in  the  frock  coat  and  undress  cap  of  the  Guards  must  be 
her  husband.  A  very  smart  and  good-looking  young  man, 
with  fair  hair,  and  eyes  that  could  only  have  been  blue,  he 


268  EXTON  MANOR 

looked  out  into  the  world  as  if  nothing  could  have  teen 
further  removed  from  him  than  a  grave  on  the  lonely  veldt, 
and,  within  a  few  paces,  the  great  darkness  standing  like  a 
wall  across  the  sunny  road  of  his  life. 

Fred  turned  away  from  the  picture,  and  just  then  Norah 
O'Keefe  came  into  the  room.  She  shook  hands  with  him, 
smiling,  but  it  was  plain  that  she  was  embarrassed.  "  Here 
is  the  sovereign  you  so  kindly  lent  me,"  she  said.  "  And  I 
am  so  very  much  obliged  to  you.  I  should  have  sent  it  'xp 
this  morning." 

"  I  hope  you  don't  think  I  came  here  for  that,"  said  Fred, 
smiling  at  her  in  return. 

She  became  grave.  "  I  hope  Bridget  was  not  rude  to  Mrs. 
Prentice,"  she  said.  "  I  should  be  sorry  for  that ;  but  I  dare 
say  you  have  heard  something  of  what  has  been  happening 
here.  I  only  did  last  night,  or  I  should  have  warned  you 
yesterday  that  I  could  not  possibly  remain  friends  with  Mrs. 
Prentice.     I  could  not  even  have  her  in  my  house." 

She  stood  in  front  of  him,  looking  into  his  eyes.  He 
dropped  his  own.  "  I'm  afraid,"  he  said,  ^'  that  my  mother 
feels  rather  strongly  about  the  RedclifFes,"  and  would  have 
said  more  but  she  broke  in  — 

"  Oh,  it  is  much  more  than  that.  She  has  behaved  abomi- 
nably. I  must  say  it,  even  to  you.  If  it  had  not  been  for 
her,  no  one  would  have  thought  anything  of  this  at  all.  She 
is  doing  her  best  to  set  everybody  against  Mrs.  RedclifFe;  and 
the  only  thing  left  for  that  dear  woman's  friends — those  who 
stand  by  her,  and  they  wouldn't  be  worth  calling  friends  if 
they  didn't  show  now  how  much  they  love  and  respect  her — 
is  to  have  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  Mrs.  Prentice  till  she 
comes  to  her  senses.  That  is  what  I  am  going  to  do  any- 
how. I  will  not  even  bow  to  her  when  I  meet  her.  I 
feel  hot  with  indignation  when  I  think  of  what  she  13 
doing." 


TWO  VISITS  S69 

Fred  stole  a  look  at  her  face.  It  seemed  to  him  more 
beautiful  than  ever  in  its  earnestness.  But  he  felt  very 
uncomfortable,  not  knowing  how  far  she  intended  to  include 
him  in  her  sentence  of  enmity,  for  she  had  been  so  carried 
away  by  her  indignation  that  it  had  seemed  as  if  he  had  been 
standing  there  to  receive  it. 

"  I'm  very  sorry  about  it  all,"  he  said.  "  Of  course,  I 
think  mother  is  very  wrong ;  and  my  father  thinks  so  too, 
you  know,  only  he  doesn't  seem  to  be  able  to  do  anything 
with  her  at  present.  She'll  come  round,  you  know.  She 
always  does  in  time." 

"And  in  the  meantime,  dear  Mrs.  RedclifFe  and  Hilda  too 
are  to  be  run  down  and  their  lives  made  miserable  to  them. 
Oh,  it  is  dreadful !  I  wouldn't  have  believed  that  any  nice 
woman  could  have  behaved  in  that  way." 

"At  any  rate,  Mrs.  O'Keefe,  neither  my  father  nor  I  take 
the  line  that  my  mother  does." 

"  I  believe  Mr.  Prentice  has  been  kind  about  it.  I  haven't 
heard  anything  from  Mrs.  RedclifFe  herself,  though  I  did  go 
up  to  see  her  last  night.  I  shouldn't  care  to  discuss  it  with 
her  unless  she  wanted  to ;  I  would  much  rather  show  her  that 
it  is  all  nothing  to  me,  that  I  love  her  all  the  more  because 
she  is  passing  through  trouble  and  anxiety.  I  don't  want  the 
horrible  unkindness  to  throw  its  shadow  over  our  friendship. 
But  Bridget,  my  maid,  has  told  me  a  great  deal.  She  is  trust- 
worthy and  keeps  her  eyes  and  ears  open.  She  said  that  the 
Vicar  had  been  up  to  see  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  and  that  he  had 
talked  to  her  as  they  were  going  into  church  on  Sunday,  while 
Mrs.  Prentice  walked  on  with  her  head  in  the  air.  I  ought 
not  to  be  talking  to  you  like  this  about  your  mother,  I  sup- 
pose, but  I  am  not  going  to  try  and  hide  my  feelings.  I  feel 
very  angry  with  her,  and  indeed  I  will  not  hide  it." 

"  I  hope  you  don't  feel  angry  with  me,"  Fred  ventured  to 
$ay.     They  had  been  standing  opposite  to  one  another  during 


270  EXTON  MANOR 

the  foregoing  conversation,  and  it  was  not  even  novir  clear 
whether  she  regarded  him  as  a  friend  or  an  enemy. 

She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  in  which  for  the  first  time  there 
was  a  sign  of  interest.  "  We  may  as  well  sit  down,"  she 
said.  "  No,  I  don't  feel  angry  with  you.  But  I  should  if  I 
thought  you  agreed  with  Mrs.  Prentice  in  what  she  is  doing. 
But  I  am  sure  you  can't.  I  won't  do  you  that  injustice. 
They  are  friends  of  yours,  are  they  not  ?  The  most  intimate 
friends  you  have  here." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  they  are."  He  turned  his  cap  in  his  hands 
and  bent  his  eyes  on  the  carpet  uneasily. 

Norah  O'Keefe  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that  were  question- 
ing and  a  trifle  impatient.  "Then  what  are  you  going  to 
do  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  looked  up  at  her.  "  Do  ? "  he  repeated.  "  What  can 
I  do  ? " 

"  What  I  should  have  thought  any  sincere  friend  would 
have  done  in  a  case  like  this.  That  would  be  to  take  the 
very  first  opportunity  of  going  to  the  White  House  and  show- 
ing that  he  was  a  friend.  That  is  what  Mr.  Browne  and 
Captain  Turner  both  did  directly  they  heard  of  it,  and  I 
honour  them  for  it." 

An  unpleasant  remembrance  came  to  Fred's  mind  of  Browne 
and  Turner  sparring  together  over  this  lady,  who  was  now 
singing  their  praises  in  return.  The  impudence  of  the  self- 
satisfied,  middle-aged  male  !  At  any  rate  he  was  not  going  to 
be  behind  them  in  a  matter  of  generosity,  if  it  was  generosity 
she  wanted  for  the  moment. 

"  I  don't  see  how  they  could  have  done  less,"  he  said,  "  and, 
of  course,  I'm  going  to  do  the  same.  But,  you  know,  my 
position  is  a  little  different  to  theirs.  I  think  my  mother  is 
wrong,  but  I  can't  very  well  say  so  to  Mrs.  RedclifFe." 

"  Why  not,  Mr.  Prentice  ?  You  have  said  it  to  me.  You 
are  quite  right  to  say  it," 


TWO  VISITS  271 

»» Well,  that's  rather  difFerent." 

"  I  really  don't  see  it.  It  isn't  of  much  importance  what 
you  say  to  me,  but  it  is  of  great  importance  what  you  say  to 
them.  And  you  knew  them  so  well.  Why,  Hilda  and  you 
are  the  greatest  friends,  aren't  you  ?  " 

There  was  a  challenge  in  her  question.  He  answered  it  as 
best  he  could.  "  Yes,  we  have  always  been  good  friends,"  he 
said.  "  Of  course  she  is  a  good  deal  younger  than  I  am.  I 
have  known  her  ever  since  she  was  in  short  frocks." 

"I  don't  think  any  man — any  young  man,  could  have  a 
better  friend  than  Hilda  RedclifFe.  She  is  true  to  the  very 
bottom  of  her  heart.  She  is  a  splendid  girl.  Oh,  Mr.  Pren- 
tice, surely  you'll  go  now,  at  once,  and  make  them  feel  that 
nothing  is  altered  because  of  this.  Every  minute  you  delay 
takes  away  from  the  effisct  of  your  going  ;  and  they  do  want 
their  friends  around  them  now." 

"Yes,  I'll  go,"  he  said.  He  paused  a  moment  and  then 
rose.  "  I'll  go  now  ;  and  may  I  come  back  and  tell  you  how 
I  have  got  on  ?  " 

She  rose  too,  and  looked  at  him  hesitatingly,  almost  distrust- 
fully. "  I  think — wouldn't  it  be  better,"  she  said  slowly,  "if 
you  didn't  come  to  see  me  until — well,  until  I  am  able  to  be 
friends  with  your  mother  again  ?  I  should  be  glad  to  see  you, 
of  course,  but " 

"  Then,  if  you  would  be  glad  to  see  me,  I  shall  come,"  he 
said  boldly.  "  And  as  for  my  mother,  I  shall  be  able  to  turn 
her.     I  believe  I  have  more  influence  over  her  than  anybody." 

"  I  hope  you  will  succeed.  It  is  terrible  that  there  should 
be  this  division  amongst  us.  We  have  always  got  on  well  to- 
gether here.  But  things  seem  to  have  changed  altogether 
while  I  have  been  away.  Well,  good-bye,  Mr.  Prentice.  I 
am  sure  your  going  up  to  the  White  House  now  will  give 
them  both  a  great  deal  of  pleasure.     I  am  glad  you  are  going." 

She  accompanied  him  to  the  door,  talking  all  the  time,  and 


272  EXTON  MANOR 

shut  it  with  a  final  good-bye,  before  he  had  time  to  say  again 
that  he  was  coming  back.  He  walked  down  the  village  and 
up  to  the  White  House  in  no  very  equable  frame  of  mind. 
What  a  confounded  nuisance  it  was,  that  while  under  ordinary 
circumstances  he  would  have  been  able  to  see  a  great  deal  of 
her  in  the  most  friendly  and  natural  way,  this  disturbance  had 
come  to  cut  her  off  from  him,  and  make  her  approachable  only 
by  efforts  on  his  part  which  it  would  require  some  pains  to 
make.  And  he  had  made  no  headway  towards  further  inti- 
macy at  all.  She  had  been  taken  up  with  the  affairs  of  her 
friends,  and  had  treated  him  only  as  a  means  of  helping  on 
their  interests.     Bother  the  RedclifFes  ! 

But  how  beautiful  she  had  been  in  her  outspoken  loyalty 
and  indignation  !  He  might  have  travelled  alone  with  her  as 
he  had  done  yesterday  every  day  for  a  week,  and  she  would 
not  have  shown  him  so  much  of  her  character  as  she  had  done 
during  the  short  interview  he  had  just  had  with  her.  He  was 
not  the  ordinary  young  fool  who  was  content  to  chatter  aim- 
lessly with  a  pretty  woman,  basking  in  the  warmth  of  her 
beauty  and  charm,  without  wanting  to  go  deeper.  Beauty  of 
character,  he  told  himself,  was  even  more  to  him  than  beauty 
of  face  and  form,  and  quite  believed  that  if  Norah  O'Keefe 
had  been  far  less  beautiful  than  she  was,  he  would  yet  have 
fallen  deeply  in  love  with  her.  She  was  inspiring.  She  would 
help  a  lover  to  climb  to  higher  altitudes  than  he  was  capable 
of  mounting  by  himself.  Oh,  that  he  and  she  might  scale  the 
dizzy  crags  of  life,  walking  hand  in  hand  along  the  easier 
slopes,  cutting  steps  together  up  the  frozen  walls,  and  bound 
always  to  one  another  by  the  strong  rope  of  love  !  He  would 
make  himself  worthy  of  her.  It  would  be  easy  work  with 
such  an  inspiration.  In  fact  there  would  be  nothing  to  do  but 
just  to  think  of  her.  Once  more  he  trod  on  air,  and  so  tread- 
ing came  to  the  White  House  and  went  in. 

Hilda  was  in  the  smaller  sitting-room,  arranging  flower- 


TWO  VISITS  273 

vases.  She  could  not  have  escaped  him  if  she  would,  for  there 
was  no  way  out  of  the  inner  room  but  through  the  larger  par- 
lour into  which  he  was  shown,  and  the  door  was  open  between 
the  two  rooms.  But  she  had  no  special  wish  to  escape  him, 
although  his  visit  gave  her  no  pleasure.  Neither  he  nor  his 
affairs  had  been  much  in  her  mind  of  late,  and  he  was  too 
closely  allied  to  the  enemy  to  be  received  without  suspicion. 
But  he  must  be  given  a  chance,  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  to 
clear  himself  of  that  suspicion,  so  she  left  her  flower  table  in 
the  inner  room  and  came  out  to  him,  with  the  question  in  her 
eyes  that  was  always  there  now  when  she  met  those  who  had 
not  yet  declared  themselves. 

"  Oh,  how  do  you  do  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  won't  shake  hands, 
because  mine  are  wet  and  rather  dirty." 

It  was  a  pity  that  he  could  not  shake  hands.  He  might 
have  put  some  warmth  into  that  simple  act.  For  the  life  of 
him  he  could  put  none  into  his  spoken  greeting  although  he 
tried  hard.  "  I  only  came  down  last  night,"  he  said.  "  I 
hope  you  and  Mrs.  RedclifFe  are  all  right,  Hilda." 

His  eyes  dropped,  and  her  face  hardened.  "  We  are  all 
right  in  health,  thank  you,"  she  said  ;  "  otherwise,  we  are  not 
all  right.     I  suppose  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  I  have  heard  something,"  he  stammered,  without  meeting 
her  gaze.     "  And  I  am  very  sorry  for  it." 

"  Sorry  for  what  ?  "  she  demanded. 

He  had  an  impulse  of  irritation  and  looked  up.  "  Sorry  for 
the  fuss  that  is  being  made  about  nothing,"  he  said. 

She  was  not  appeased,  although  there  was  nothing  she  could 
take  hold  of  in  his  actual  words.  But  could  he  have  spoken 
like  that  if  he  had  really  been  on  their  side — hers  and  her 
mother's  ?  Turner  had  not  spoken  like  that,  nor  even  Browne. 
And  Norah  O'Keefe — she  had  just  come  into  the  room  and 
thrown  her  arms  around  their  necks.  There  had  been  no 
need  to  ask  her  for  what  she  was  sorry. 


274  EXTON  MANOR 

"  It  isn't  exactly  nothing  to  us,"  she  said ;  "  and  as  for  the 
fuss  that  is  being  made — a  better  word  would  be  wicked- 
ness." 

Again  he  felt  annoyed.  Why  should  he  stand  still  to  be 
addressed  in  this  way  when  he  had  only  come  with  good  in- 
tentions, and  out  of  pure  generosity  of  heart  ? 

"  You  can  hardly  expect  me  to  take  quite  that  view,  Hilda," 
he  said,  **  considering  that  it  is  my  mother  who " 

"  Then,  if  you  don't  take  that  view,"  she  flamed  out  at 
him,  "  why  do  you  come  here  at  all  ?  It  is  an  insult  that  you 
should  come  near  us." 

*'  I  came  because  I  wanted  you  to  know  that — that  I  don't 
agree  with  my  mother,  in — in  what  she  says.  I  came  out  of 
friendship.     But  if  you  think  my  coming  is  an  insult " 

"  You  would  have  kept  away.  I  wish  you  had  kept  away. 
Everything  you  say  makes  it  worse.  You  don't  agree  with 
your  mother !  How  very  kind  of  you  !  We  are  still  to  be 
allowed  to  bask  in  your  patronage  then,  as  long  as  we  behave 
ourselves  !  " 

The  concentrated  scorn  and  bitterness  in  her  young  voice 
and  on  her  face  might  have  moved  him  to  some  feeling  other 
than  resentment,  if  his  conscience  had  been  clearer.  But 
this  was  the  girl  whom  he  had  last  parted  from  as  her  all  but 
confessed  lover,  and  his  desertion  of  her,  although  she  did 
not  yet,  know  of  it,  lay  between  them,  and  must  have  pre- 
vented his  saying  anything  that  could  satisfy  her,  whatever  he 
had  said. 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  came  into  the  room  before  he  could  reply. 
"  Here  is  Fred,  mother,"  said  Hilda  contemptuously,  "  come 
lo  say  that  he  doesn't  quite  agree  with  everything  that  Mrs 
Prentice  is  saying  and  doing  at  present." 

"  Hilda  has  flown  at  me  like  a  tiger,"  said  Fred,  "  for  hav- 
ing the  impudence,  as  she  calls  it,  to  come  here  at  all.  I  only 
came  to  see  you,  as  soon  as  ever  I  could,  Mrs.  Redclifl^e,  to 


TWO  VISITS  27s 

tell  you  how  sorry  I  am  about  this,  and — and  I  hope  it  will 
make  no  difference  in  our  friendship." 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  sat  down  on  the  sofa.  She  was  beginning 
to  feel  the  effect  of  these  constantly  recurring  discussions, 
and  this  one  did  not  promise  to  yield  much  satisfaction. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  bound  to  make  some  difference,  Fred," 
she  said,  "  though  it  is  kind  of  you  to  come.  Your  mother 
would  not  care  for  you  to  be  here  so  often  as  you  used  to  be, 
and  I  should  be  sorry  to  give  her  occasion  for  further  hostility. 
So  I  am  afraid  we  must  be  content  not  to  see  much  of  each 
other  at  present." 

Fred  was  afraid,  too,  that  it  must  be  so.  Of  course,  he 
thought  his  mother  was  in  the  wrong,  but  Mrs.  Redcliffe 
would  see  that  he  could  not  go  against  her  altogether ;  that  is^ 
he  would  do  what  he  could  to  bring  about  a  better  understand- 
ing, but — but  he  could  not  do  what  Mrs.  O'Keefe,  for  in- 
stance, had  done  and — well,  send  her  to  Coventry. 

Thus,  stammeringly  and  ending  with  a  sort  of  shame- 
faced jocularity,  Mr.  Frederick  Prentice,  altogether  relieved  in 
his  mind  that  it  should  be  understood  that  he  was  not  to  come 
to  the  White  House  again,  but  anxious  to  avoid  all  blame  in 
keeping  away.  Mrs.  Redcliffe  listened  to  him,  not  without 
some  signs  of  mild  surprise,  her  eyes  on  his  face  ;  and  Hilda 
also  kept  her  eyes  on  his  face,  her  brows  bent  and  the  little 
vertical  line  between  them  becoming  more  pronounced  as  he 
stumbled  through  his  speech.     Then  she  spoke. 

"  How  do  you  know,"  she  said  sharply,  "that  Mrs.  O'Keefe 
has  sent  Mrs.   Prentice  to  Coventry,  as  you  call  it  ? " 

"  Because  we  went  to  see  her  this  morning  and  she  had 
given  orders  that  she  was  not  at  home  to  my  mother.  It  was 
explained  to  her  by  the  servant  without  any  hesitation." 

A  gleam  of  satisfaction  passed  across  Hilda's  face,  but  it 
was  quickly  overshad  wed.  "  There  is  no  doubt  about  our 
real  friends,"  she  said.     "  Then  Mrs.  Prentice  took  the  very 


276  EXTON  MANOR 

first  opportunity  after  Mrs.  O'Keefe's  coming  home,  to  go 
and  poison  her  mind  against  us,  or  to  try  to,  for  she  wouldn't 
have  succeeded.  How  like  her  !  And  you  went  with  her, 
knowing  what  she  was  going  to  do." 

"  I — I  shouldn't  have  let  her  say  anything  against  Mrs. 
RedclifFe." 

Hilda  turned  away.  ''  I've  got  nothing  more  to  say  to 
you,"  she  said,  and  then  turned  round  again  quickly  and 
added,  "  and  I  hope  I  never  shall  have."  Then  she  went  into 
the  inner  room. 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  rose.  "  Good-bye,  Fred,"  she  said,  holding 
out  her  hand.  "  I  am  sure  you  meant  kindly  in  coming,  but 
I  don't  quite  understand  why  you  came." 

Fred  stammered  something  inaudible  and  went  out.  He 
struck  the  gravel  with  his  stick  as  he  went  down  the  drive. 
"  Why  on  earth  did  I  go  ?  "  he  said  angrily.  "  That  girl  is 
turning  into  a  vixen.     It's  a  lucky  escape." 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  went  in  to  her  daughter.  "That's  all 
over,"  said  Hilda,  turning  to  her.  "  Mother,  I  would  never 
have  said  one  friendly  word  to  Fred  Prentice  if  I  had  known 
what  he  really  was.  I  did  know  he  was  idle  and  selfish,  but 
I  never  thought  he  was  so  mean  and  poor-spirited  as  he  has 
shown  himself.  He  is  worse  than  his  mother,  for  she  has  got 
the  excuse  of  her  horrid  nature.  Oh,  mother,  when  will  it 
all  end  ? " 

She  broke  into  a  passion  of  tears  and  threw  herself  into 
her  mother's  arms.  Mrs.  RedclifFe  soothed  her,  but  it  was 
not  till  long  after  that  she  was  calm  again.  There  was  that 
in  the  minds  of  both  of  them  that  could  not  be  put  into 
words,  but  as  she  sobbed  out  her  distress  at  her  mother's 
knee,  both  of  them  knew  that  a  line  had  been  drawn  across 
a  chapter  of  her  life  in  which  much  more  might  have  been 
written. 

Fred  Prentice  walked  quickly  down  to  the  village,  throwing 


TWO  VISITS  177 

off  the  unpleasant  memories  of  his  late  performance  as  he 
went,  and  rang  again  at  the  porch  of  Street  House.  But  he 
was  told  that  Mrs.  O'Keefe  had  driven  out  and  would  not  be 
back  before  luncheon,  and  went  home  once  more  a  prey  to 
acute  discomfort  of  mind. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THREE    MEN    AND    A    LADY 

Maximilian  Browne  rose  early  on  that  Saturday  morning 
and  took  a  cold  bath,  after  a  steady  half-hour's  manipulation 
of  an  elastic  exerciser.  He  went  down  to  breakfast  as  the 
clock  struck  eight,  feeling  himself  every  inch  a  man.  After 
breakfast  he  lit  a  pipe  and  inspected  his  stables  and  garden. 
"  That's  the  way  to  live,  Sally,"  he  said  to  the  fox-terrier  that 
accompanied  him,  and  showed  the  liveliest  interest  in  his  con- 
fidences. "  I've  been  getting  slack  lately.  Hot  baths  and 
cigarettes  before  breakfast,  and  breakfast  at  nine  o'clock  or 
later — it  plays  the  deuce  and  all.  If  I  keep  this  up,  as  I 
mean  to,  I  shall  take  off  a  stone  in  no  time.  And  by  George, 
it  makes  you  feel  fit,  don't  it  ?  " 

He  stretched  his  arms  and  yawned.  "  Come  and  sit  down 
on  a  seat,  Sally,"  he  went  on.  "  We've  got  an  hour  before 
we  need  go  to  the  office.     We'll  see  how  we  stand." 

It  was  a  sunny  May  morning,  and  Browne  brought  out  a 
comfortable  basket-chair  and  ensconced  himself  under  a  blos- 
soming apple  tree  on  the  lawn.     Sally  jumped  upon  his  lap. 

"  Now,  then,  little  dog,  we've  made  up  our  minds,  haven't 
we  ?  "  he  said,  caressing  her  shoulders  with  a  large  hand  and 
jerking  his  face  away  from  her  tongue.  "  Chuck  it,  Sally. 
If  you  don't  keep  quiet  I  shan't  talk  of  anything.  Well, 
we're  not  going  to  play  the  fool  any  longer.  We  don't  want 
to  get  married.  We're  very  well  off  as  we  are.  And  if  we 
don't  want  to  get  married,  Sally,  what's  the  good  of  hanging 
about — you  know  what  I  mean — and  spoiling  the  chances  of 
people  who  do  ?  Of  course  she's  a  very  pretty  lady,  Sally. 
You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do.     Still,  we've  done  very  well 

278 


THREE  MEN  AND  A  LADY  279 

without  her  for  the  last  month,  and  we'll  go  on  doing  without 
her,  eh  ?  Nothing  simpler,  Sally.  We'll  get  up  early  every 
morning  and  do  a  good  day's  work — get  down  to  the  office  at 
half-past  nine  sharp,  hack  about  and  sweat  the  weight  off  in 
the  afternoon  all  through  the  summer,  read  some'ing  pretty 
stiff  for  an  hour  after  dinner,  so's  to  rub  up  our  brains  a  bit. 
Not  the  sort  of  rubbish  Turner  reads.  We'll  have  a  go  at 
Horace,  I  think,  Sally — with  a  crib.  Used  to  be  pretty  good 
at  Horace  at  school.  Jupiter  and  Maecenas,  Sally,  and  all 
those  old  fellows.  Then  we'll  go  to  bed  early  and  sleep  like 
tops.  We'll  save  a  bit  of  money  ;  perhaps  we  might  look  out 
for  a  pupil   or  two,  and   buy   a  good   weight  carrier  for  the 

winter.     It  ain't  a  bad  life,  Sally,  and HuUoa !  going 

to  sleep  ?  Well,  you're  a  nice  sort  o'  girl  to  tell  things  to. 
What's  the  time  ?  Quarter  to  nine.  Now,  yesterday  we 
were  only  just  thinking  of  getting  up.  Makes  you  feel  a  bit 
slack  at  first,  getting  up  early,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

There  was  silence  for  an  hour  while  man  and  dog  slum- 
bered peacefully.  The  flickering  shadows  played  over  them, 
and  the  breeze  stroked  them  lightly,  scattering  pink  blossoms. 

Browne  awoke  with  a  start  and  dropped  the  dog  from  his 
lap.  "  By  Jove,  a  quarter  to  ten  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  What 
the  deuce !  "  He  hurried  round  to  the  stable  and  ordered 
out  his  cart.  "  Meant  to  walk,"  he  said,  "  but  I'm  a  bit 
late." 

He  drove  down  to  his  office  and  busied  himself  in  affairs. 
About  eleven  o'clock  his  clerk  came  in  with  a  note.  "  From 
Mrs.  O'Keefe,"  he  said.  Browne's  pink  face  grew  a  shade 
pinker  as  he  opened  it.  "  Oh,  she's  come  back,  has  she  ?  " 
he  said,  in  elaborate  innocence. 

The  note  enclosed  a  cheque  for  a  quarter's  rent,  and  apolo- 
gized for  its  being  overdue.  Browne  endorsed  the  cheque  and 
handed  it  over. 

"  Shall  I  send  the  receipt  round .? "  asked  the  clerk. 


28o  EXTON  MANOR 

"  Yes.  No,  I  may  as  well  take  it  myself.  I'm  going  that 
way — to  the  Lodge.     Get  it  ready  and  I'll  sign  it." 

A  little  later  Browne  knocked  at  the  door  of  Street  House, 
and  learnt  that  Mrs.  O'Keefe  had  driven  out  and  would  not 
be  back  before  luncheon.  "Well,  I'll  leave  this,"  he  said. 
"And  you  might  tell  Mrs.  O'Keefe  that  I'll  drop  in  and  see 
her  about  tea-time."  Then  he  made  his  way  to  the  Lodge, 
where  sundry  repairs  were  in  progress.  The  estate  foreman 
said  afterwards  that  he  must  have  got  out  of  bed  the  wrong 
side  that  morning. 

Captain  Thomas  Turner  was  lying  in  bed  at  that  very  time, 
not  feeling  at  all  well.  He  had  sat  up  until  long  past  daylight 
deeply  absorbed  in  a  masterpiece  by  one  of  his  favourite  nov- 
elists, who  carried  his  romances  to  unusual  lengths,  and  had 
demanded  the  incense  of  nearly  two  ounces  of  tobacco  and  a 
corresponding  libation  of  whisky  before  he  finally  extricated 
his  characters  from  the  appalling  vicissitudes  through  which  he 
had  led  them.  Captain  Turner  felt  that  he  had  passed  through 
a  great  strain,  and  groaned  frequently  as  he  crept  out  of  bed 
and  went  through  a  slow  but  incomplete  toilet. 

"  Shave  when  I  feel  a  little  better,"  he  said  to  himself,  and 
went  down-stairs  in  a  Norfolk  jacket  and  with  a  scarf  round 
his  neck.  He  sat  out  in  the  sunshine  while  his  breakfast  was 
being  prepared,  gathering  strength  as  the  cool  breezes  played 
round  his  forehead. 

"This  won't  do,  you  know,"  he  said  aloud  to  himself. 
"  It's  a  rotten  life.  Nobody  to  talk  to  and  take  you  out  of 
yourself,  and  sitting  up  aill  night  smoking  and  drinking  and 
using  your  brain  when  you  ought  to  be  in  bed.  It's  all  very 
well,  but  you  begin  to  feel  it  as  you  grow  older.  A  man 
oughtn't  to  live  alone  when  he  gets  past  forty.  Never  felt 
that  so  strongly  before." 

He  sat  immersed  in  thought  for  some  time.  Then  he  raised 
his  eyes  and  looked  down  the  pleasant  valley,  but  without  see- 


THREE  MEN  AND  A  LADY  281 

ing  anything  that  lay  before  him.  "  I've  a  jolly  good  mind  to 
try  my  luck,"  he  said. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir?"  said  the  neat  maid  who  came 
out  of  the  house  at  this  moment.  "  Oh,  beg  pardon.  Break- 
fast is  ready,  sir." 

Turner  ate  his  breakfast,  thinking  hard  the  while.  Dis- 
jointed sentences  fell  from  his  lips  from  time  to  time.  "  Why 
shouldn't  I  ?  .  .  .  I've  got  plenty  of  money,  and  I'd 
alter  the  house  if  she  wanted  it.  .  .  .  Have  to  keep  that 
old  fool,  Browne,  out  of  the  way.  .  .  .  S'pose  he'd  laugh, 
but  I  shouldn't  mind  that." 

When  he  had  finished  breakfast  he  stood  for  a  time  beside 
the  window.  "  Have  to  see  her,"  he  said.  "  Couldn't  do  it 
in  writing.  .  .  .  Might  send  a  note  and  say  I'm  coming 
this  afternoon.  .  .  .  Matter  of  importance — to  see  you  on 
a  question  of  great  importance — question  of — matter  of  great 
importance.  .  .  .  H'm !  Perhaps  better  leave  it  alone. 
.  .  .  Noj  I'll  go  through  with  it.  .  .  .  Can  only 
say  no.  .  .  .  Can't  bite  me.  .  .  .  Don't  be  a  funk. 
Turner." 

He  sat  down  at  a  writing-table  with  determination  and 
scribbled  a  note,  re-read  it  and  fastened  it  up  in  an  envelope. 
Then  with  the  same  resolute  bearing  went  out  to  where  Rob- 
ert Kitcher  was  working  in  the  garden. 

"Take  this  down  at  once  to  Mrs.  O'Keefe,"  he  said, 
*'  and  wait  for  an  answer."  And,  as  he  turned  away,  in  the 
same  tone,  "  Well,  I've  done  it.     Can't  get  out  of  it  now." 

Robert  Kitcher,  as  he  rode  down  to  the  village,  had  some- 
thing to  think  about.  "Well,  she's  a  nice  lady,"  was  the  end 
of  his  cogitation.  "  But  blowed  if  I  ever  thought  he'd  'a'  had 
the  pluck.  Bring  her  own  man  up  to  look  arter  the  haarses, 
I  s'pose.  And  a  good  job  too.  I  hate  the  dratted  things. 
Hold  up,  can't  yer !     Give  me  cabbages." 

The  note  having  been  despatched.  Turner  fell  a  prey  to 


282  EXTON  MANOR 

dreadful  misgivings,  and  would  have  liked  to  recall  it. 
When  the  messenger  came  back  and  told  him  that  the  lady 
would  not  be  back  before  luncheon-time,  he  felt  relief,  and  his 
resolution  tottered.  But,  reflecting  that  he  was  a  man  of 
honour,  and  his  word  was  as  good  as  pledged,  he  braced  him- 
self anew  to  his  ordeal  and  went  through  the  rest  of  the  morn- 
ing and  early  afternoon  in  alternate  fits  of  determination  and 
dull  apathy  ;  his  headache  had  gone  by  four  o'clock,  and  he 
dressed  himself  carefully  and  set  out,  watched  with  respectful 
interest  by  his  two  women  servants  from  an  upper  window, 
for  whose  benefit  Robert  Kitcher  from  the  back  seat  of  the 
cart  made  motions  expressive  of  throwing  rice,  which  caused 
them  some  amusement  at  the  time,  although  it  was  not  until 
he  had  explained  his  action  later  that  they  really  laughed. 

It  is  possible,  although  not  probable,  that  Norah  O'Keefe 
had  not  divined  from  Turner's  preparatory  note  what  the  mat- 
ter of  importance,  on  which  he  wished  to  address  her,  was. 
And  it  is  possible  that  she  may  have  made  up  her  mind  to  get 
it  over  and  have  done  with  it.  It  is  also  possible  that  she  may 
have  wished  to  escape  it  for  the  time  by  running  away,  but 
had  been  prevented  from  doing  so.  At  any  rate,  when  Turner 
applied  for  admission,  his  knees  knocking  together  and  an 
earnest  determination  sitting  on  his  mind  to  take  "  no  "  for  an 
answer  to  the  question  he  had  rashly  pledged  himself  to  ask  as 
soon  as  it  was  offered  to  him,  he  was  admitted  to  the  lady's 
presence.  But — and  this  may  have  been  the  reason  why  Mrs. 
O'Keefe  was  not  drinking  tea  elsewhere  that  afternoon — sitting 
by  the  side  of  her  table  and  consuming  a  crumpet  sat  Maxi- 
milian Browne. 

The  sight  of  the  object  of  his  morning's  reflections,  more 
fresh  and  blooming  even  than  his  imagination  had  pictured 
her,  and  his  rival  in  such  close  juxtaposition,  instantly 
changed  the  current  of  his  thoughts  again,  and  he  glared  at 
the  intruder  malevolently  as  he  shook  hands  with  his  hostess. 


THREE  MEN  AND  A  LADY  283 

"  Might  have  known  I  should  find  you  here,"  he  said, 
when  he  had  taken  a  chair.  "  Regular  tea-table  fellow,  you 
are. 

"  What  about  you,  then  ?  "  retorted  Browne.  "  Here  you 
are  at  Mrs.  O'Keefe's  tea-table,  and  a  very  good  tea-table  it  is." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Browne,"  said  Norah,  laughing.  "  Now 
you  are  not  to  begin  to  quarrel  the  moment  you  come  here. 
You  never  do  it  anywhere  else,  and  it  is  no  compliment  to 
me. 

"  He's  such  a  jealous  fellow,"  said  Turner.  "  Can't  bear 
anybody  to  have  a  look  in  anywhere  but  himself." 

"  You're  a  fool,"  said  Browne  brilliantly.  "  Well,  as  I  was 
saying,  Mrs.  O'Keefe,  I  think  you'd  better  call  on  Lady  Wro- 
tham  as  soon  as  possible.  Then  perhaps  you'll  be  able  to  put 
things  straight  a  bit." 

"Don't  you  call  on  her,  Mrs.  O'Keefe,"  put  in  Turner. 
"  She's  a  domineering,  scandal-mongering  old  busybody.  I 
suppose  Browne  has  been  keeping  dark  what  has  happened  since 
you've  been  away." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Norah.  "  I  know  everything,  and  I  am 
very  angry  about  it.  Most  angry,  of  course,  with  Mrs. 
Prentice." 

"  There's  nothing  to  be  said  for  her,"  said  Browne. 

"  And  there's  nothing  to  be  said  for  Lady  Wrotham," 
added  Turner.     "  She  first  put  it  about." 

"  That's  what  I  think,"  said  Norah.  "  And  really,  Mr. 
Browne,  I  don't  feel  inclined  to  go  and  see  her." 

Browne  grew  pinker.  "But  look  here,"  he  said.  "It'll 
be  perfectly  awful  if  there's  going  to  be  trouble  all  round. 
You  must  meet  Lady  Wrotham  some  time  or  other,  Mrs. 
O'Keefe.  You  can't  live  a  hundred  yards  off  her  without,  and 
it  will  be  frightfully  awkward  for  everybody  if " 

"  Rot  and  rubbish  !  "  exclaimed  Turner.  "  If  she  comes 
down  here  and  starts  setting  everybody  by  the  ears,  she's  got 


184  EXTON  MANOR 

to  put  up  with  the  awkwardness.  Fact  is,  you're  so  doosid 
afraid  o*  getting  a  wigging  from  her  that  you  want  everybody 
to  go  and  tumble  down  at  her  feet.  You  got  me  to  go, 
and " 

"And  a  lot  of  tumbling  at  her  feet  you  did  !  She  won't 
want  to  see  you  again." 

"  She  wouldn't  if  she  did.  I've  had  enough  of  her  to  last 
me  my  lifetime,  or  till  the  end  of  my  lease,  when  I  dare  say 
she'll  order  you  to  turn  me  out,  and  you'll  do  it.  I'm  not 
going  to  sit  in  a  lady's  drawing-room  and  hear  her  going  for 
my  friends  without  telling  her  what  I  think  of  it.  Mrs.  Red- 
clifFe's  worth  a  hundred  of  her,  and  you'd  have  told  her  so  your- 
self if  you'd  had  the  pluck  of  a  mouse." 

"  I  did  as  good  as  tell  her  so.  You  know  that  as  well  as  I 
do.     I'm  just  as  much  for  Mrs.  RedclifFe  as  you  are." 

"  There  is  not  the  slightest  need  to  quarrel  about  that,"  said 
Norah  hastily,  anxious  to  forestall  further  reprisals.  "  You 
both  of  you  behaved  just  as  one  would  have  expected  you  to 
behave.  But  I  tell  you  candidly,  Mr.  Browne,  that  if  I  did 
call  on  Lady  Wrotham,  I  should  tell  her,  just  as  Captain 
Turner  did,  what  I  think  of  this  persecution  of  dear  Mrs. 
RedclifFe." 

"You  wouldn't  be  as  rude  as  he  was,"  said  Browne. 
"  And  there'd  be  no  necessity.  I  believe,  if  you  told  her  what 
everybody  thinks  of  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  she'd  listen  to  you,  and 
you  might  do  a  lot  of  good.  It's  all  very  well,  but  if  she  only 
gets  her  ideas  from  Mrs.  Prentice — well,  I  think  it's  hardly 
fair  on  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  And  Turner  and  I  didn't  do  much. 
He  was  too  rude,  and  I  was " 

"  Too  much  of  a  funk,"  put  in  Turner.  "  Don't  you  go, 
Mrs.  O'Keefe.  We  don't  want  the  old  lady.  We  got  on 
very  well  without  her,  and  now  we've  no  need  to  pretend  to 
put  up  with  the  Prentice  woman  any  longer,  we'll  get  on  bet- 
ter still." 


THREE  MEN  AND  A  LADY  285 

"  I  think  I  will  go,"  said  Norah  thoughtfully.  "  I'll  see 
what  I  can  do.     I'm  not  afraid  of  her,  at  any  rate." 

"  Browne  is,"  said  Turner.  "  Oh,  good  heavens,  why 
couldn't  we  have  been  left  alone  ?  " 

When  tea  was  over  Turner  sat  on  and  looked  vindictively 
at  Browne,  and  Browne  sat  on  and  looked  suspiciously  at 
Turner,  while  Norah  tried  to  keep  the  bail  of  conversation 
rolling,  but  without  any  great  success. 

At  last  Browne  made  a  move.  "  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  be 
off,"  he  said.     "  Coming  up  with  me.  Turner  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Turner.  "  Good-bye,  if  you  must  be 
going." 

Browne  sat  on.  Norah  sprang  up,  unable  to  support  the 
tension  any  longer.  "  Let  us  go  into  the  garden,"  she  said. 
"  There  is  nothing  to  see,  but  it  is  a  lovely  evening." 

She  led  the  way  through  the  open  French  windows. 
Browne  made  as  if  to  follow  her.  "  Why  the  devil  can't  you 
go,  if  you  want  to  ? "  said  Turner  in  a  fierce  whisper. 

Browne  looked  at  him  with  intelligence.  "  I'll  go  when 
you  do,"  he  said,  also  in  a  whisper. 

Just  at  that  moment  the  door  opened  and  Mr.  Frederick 
Prentice  was  announced. 

He  came  in  with  a  look  that  might  have  been  described  as 
sheepish,  and  when  he  saw  the  other  two  men  that  epithet  fitted 
his  appearance  still  more  accurately.  Norah  came  back  from 
the  window  blushing,  although  she  was  angry  with  herself 
when  she  felt  her  face  growing  warm.  Browne  stared,  and 
Turner  muttered  something  short  and  expressive  of  his 
feelings. 

Fred  and  Norah  shook  hands,  both  in  some  confusion,  and 
then  she  offered  him  some  tea,  which  he  accepted  and  drank, 
striving  to  talk  and  appear  at  his  ease,  in  which  he  was  not 
very  successful,  and  the  other  two  resumed  their  seats  and  sat 
glumly. 


286  EXTON  MANOR 

Norah*s  spirits  revived  and  she  suddenly  laughed.  "  I  for- 
got to  introduce  you,"  she  said.  "  Captain  Turner  and  Mr. 
Browne ;  Mr.  Prentice." 

Fred  laughed  too,  awkwardly.  "  Knew  them  both  before 
Browne  went  bald  and  Turner  grey,"  he  said,  not  very  happily. 
"  And  they  knew  me " 

*'  When  you  were  only  a  cub  and  not  a  puppy,"  interrupted 
Turner.  "  Look  here,  we've  been  talking  about  Mrs.  Red- 
clifFe.  We're  all  her  friends  here.  How  do  you  stand  ? 
That's  what  I'd  like  to  know." 

His  roughness  acted  like  a  tonic  on  Fred.  He  eyed  him 
coolly.  "  I've  come  to  talk  to  Mrs.  O'Keefe  about  that," 
he  saidj  "but  I  don't  know  that  I've  got  anything  to  say  to 
you." 

"You  went  up  to  see  Mrs.  RedclifFe  this  morning,  didn't 
you,  Mr.  Prentice  ?  "  Norah  struck  in. 

"  Yes,  I  did.     I'll  tell  you  about  it — afterwards." 

His  implied  intention  of  sitting  out  Browne  and  Turner 
caused  Norah  to  say  hurriedly,  *'  Oh,  tell  me  now,  please.  I 
haven't  got  much  time  to  spare.  I  have  a  lot  of  letters  to 
write." 

"  I  went,"  he  said,  after  a  reluctant  pause.  "  But — but 
— well,  Mrs.  RedclifFe  thanked  me  for  coming,  but  Hilda — 
I  didn't  get  on  so  well  with  her.  She  seemed  really  to  want 
to  make  an  enemy  of  me.  I  don't  know  why,  because — 
because — it  was  rather  a  difficult  thing  to  do — I  wanted  to 
let  them  see  that  I  didn't  agree  with  my  mother,  but — I 
think  unless  I  had  been  prepared  to  call  her  all  sorts  of 
names,  which  I'm  really  not  quite  prepared  to  do — to  an  out- 
sider— I  mean  that  nothing  less  than  that  would  have  satisfied 
her." 

"  Quite  right  too,"  said  Turner.     "  She's  a  trump,  that  girl." 

Fred  looked  at  him.  "  I  dare  say  it  seems  quite  natural 
to  you,  Turner,"  he  said,  "  that  a  man  should  be  ready  to  heai 


THREE  MEN  AND  A  LADY  287 

his  mother  called  names,  and  even  to  call  her  names  himself. 
It  seems  to  me  that  when  he  has  said  he  thinks  she  is  in  the 
wrong,  and  he's  sorry  for  it,  it  ought  to  be  enough.  I  hope 
Mrs.  O'Keefe  thinks  so  too." 

He  spoke  with  some  dignity,  and  Norah  O'Keefe  felt  a 
quick  sympathy  for  him.  "  Oh,  yes,"  she  said.  "  You 
couldn't  do  more  than  that.  And  of  course  your  position  is 
a  difficult  one." 

"Jolly  difficult,"  said  Turner.  "  Hunting  with  the  hounds 
and  running  with  the  hare  always  is.  I'm  quite  content  to 
take  Miss  Hilda's  view.  If  you  couldn't  satisfy  her,  after 
making  eyes  at  her  for  years,  you  won't  satisfy  the  rest  of  us." 

"  I  can't  see  why  you  shouldn't  keep  out  of  it  altogether," 
said  Browne.  "  You  are  hardly  ever  here,  and  it  isn't  your 
business." 

"It's  just  as  much  mine  as  yours,"  said  Fred  angrily, " only 
it's  more  difficult  for  me." 

"  Of  course  it  is  difficult,"  said  Norah. 

Turner  was  not  to  be  suppressed.  "  The  thing's  perfectly 
simple,"  he  said.  "  There  are  two  parties  in  Exton  now. 
One  of  them  is  Mrs.  Prentice  and  Lady  Wrotham,  and  the 
other  is  all  the  rest  of  us.  There's  no  getting  over  that.  If 
you  think  your  place  is  by  your  mother,  as  I  dare  say  it  is — 
well,  stick  to  it." 

Fred  shrugged  his  shoulders  impatiently.  "  I've  nothing 
more  to  say,"  he  said. 

"I'm  afraid  our  quarrelling  amongst  ourselves  won't  help 
dear  Mrs.  RedclifFe,"  said  Norah. 

"  I  don't  want  to  quarrel,"  said  Fred,  "  only  Turner  seems 
determined  to  make  me.  I  came  to  talk  to  you,  Mrs. 
O'Keefe.     Perhaps  I  had  better  come  to-morrow." 

Browne  got  up  from  his  chair.  "  Good-bye,  Mrs. 
O'Keefe,"  he  said,  shook  hands  and  went  out. 

"  I'd  got  something  to  say  to  you  too,"  sard  Turner;  "  but 


288  EXTON  MANOR 

I  suppose  I  must  make  a  move  now  this  conquering  hero  has 
come  on  to  the  scene." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  must  both  make  a  move,"  said  Norah. 
*'  I  have  a  great  many  letters  that  I  must  write  for  to-night's 
post,  and  unless  I  begin  now  I  shan't  get  them  done."  She 
stood  up  behind  her  table,  and  there  was  nothing  for  her  two 
remaining  visitors  but  to  take  their  leave.  Fred  had  not  been 
in  the  room  ten  minutes,  and  was  not  pleased  at  being  thus 
dismissed.  His  displeasure  vented  itself  upon  Turner  when 
they  found  themselves  out  in  the  road  together.  "The 
cheek,"  he  said, "  of  two  old  fogies  like  you  and  Browne  worry- 
ing a  woman  like  that  with  your  ridiculous  attentions." 

Turner  looked  at  him.  "  You're  not  only  a  conceited 
puppy,"  he  said — "you're  a  cur,"  and  got  up  into  his  cart, 
leaving  Fred  with  the  uncomfortable  conviction  that  his  defec- 
tion had  already  become  known  to  the  world,  and  that  his  new 
pursuit  would  also  now  provide  food  for  gossip. 

"  Young  cad  ! "  said  Turner,  driving  off.  "  Chucked  ofF 
a  girl  in  a  thousand  like  an  old  glove  and  poking  his  nose  in 
here  where  he's  not  wanted.  Think  I'll  go  up  and  see 
Browne.     He's  a  fool,  but  he's  an  honest  fool." 

It  was  significant  of  the  understanding  existing  between 
these  two  queer  characters  that  they  should  meet  again  now 
without  the  slightest  awkwardness  arising  out  of  their  late 
encounter.  They  talked  over  the  new  development  in  the 
general  situation,  and  were  united  in  their  strictures  on  Fred 
Prentice,  agreeing  that  he  had  behaved  atrociously,  and 
should  get  the  punishment  he  deserved  if  they  could  by  any 
means  bring  it  about.  That  he  should  have  fallen  in  love 
with  Norah  O'Keefe,  as  it  was  plain  to  both  of  them  that  he 
had  done,  was  characterized  as  a  piece  of  infernal  impudence, 
and  roused  them  both  to  fury.  But  both  of  them  expressed 
the  conviction  that  she  wouldn't  have  anything  to  say  to  him, 
and  when  she  found  it  out,  would  send  him  about  his  business 


THREE  MEN  AND  A  LADY  289 

pretty  quic^.  It  did  not  occur  to  them  that  what  was  per- 
fectly plain  to  them  might  possibly  have  been  already  divined 
by  her,  but  they  agreed  that  she  would  certainly  have  nothing 
to  do  with  him. 

"  By  the  bye,"  said  Browne,  "  why  were  you  so  anxious  to 
get  her  alone  this  afternoon  ?  Had  you  made  up  your  mind  to 
get  it  out  at  last  ?  " 

"  Look  here,  Maximilian  Browne,"  replied  Turner  impress- 
ively, "when  I  propose  to  Mrs.  O'Keefe — for  Isuppose  that's 
what  you're  driving  at,  though  you  never  say  anything  straight 
— you  may  ask  me  to  go  down  on  my  hands  and  knees  in 
front  of  Lady  Wrotham  and  I'll  do  it.  I  like  Mrs.  O'Keefe, 
and  I'm  quite  ready  to  have  a  little  quiet  talk  with  her 
occasionally — when  you'll  let  me  ;  but  as  for  marrying  her, 
I've  no  more  idea  of  marrying  her  than  I  have  of  marrying — er 
— anybody,  and  never  have  had.  So  let's  have  an  end  of  this 
nonsense." 

Then  they  played  Picquet  together,  and  Turner  stayed  to 
dinner.  He  got  home  about  eleven  o'clock,  read  a  novel  and 
went  to  bed  at  three.  As  he  laid  his  head  on  the  pillow  he 
said,  "  If  I  hadn't  been  very  careful  and  kept  a  strong  hold 
over  myself  to-day,  I  should  have  been  in  the  soup." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

CHURCH,    AND    AFTER 

The  Sunday  which  followed  Mrs.  Prentice's  rejection  at 
the  door  of  Mrs.  O'Keefe  produced  a  crisis  in  the  religious 
feud  set  on  foot  by  Lady  Wrotham. 

It  fell  in  this  wise.  The  Vicar  had  decreed  some  time 
before  that  on  this  particular  Sunday  the  congregation  at 
the  choral  mass  would  be  enlarged  by  the  presence  of  such 
of  the  school  children  whose  parents  should  not  object. 
Somehow,  this  intelligence  had  escaped  Lady  Wrotham,  prob- 
ably because  no  parents  had  objected,  the  villagers  on  the 
whole  taking  their  spiritual  sustenance  without  questioning 
the  form  in  which  it  was  offered  them,  and  confining  their 
parental  duties  to  instructing  their  children  to  do  as  they 
were  told ;  and  those  who  were  willing  to  follow  Lady 
Wrotham's  lead  and  harry  the  Vicar  not  having  grasped  the 
fact  that  this  particular  service  would  come  under  her  ban. 
She  heard  of  it  only  on  rising  on  the  day  on  which  this 
great  insult  to  her  opinions  and  authority  was  to  be  offered, 
and  she  was  furious. 

"  I  will  not  have  it,  /  will  not  have  it"  she  said  to  her 
maid,  who  had  given  her  the  information.  *'  Send  at  once  to 
Mr.  Petty,  Riddell,  and  ask  him  to  be  good  enough  to  come 
and  see  me  at  nine  o'clock  punctually." 

Mr.  Petty,  the  schoolmaster,  presented  himself  at  the  time 
appointed.  He  was  also  the  organist,  and  one  of  the  Vicar's 
staunchest  adherents,  agreeing  with  everything  he  did,  and 
only  anxious  that  he  should  go  to  the  utmost  limits  that  the 
Church,  in  which  he  himself  secretly  aspired  to  be  a  vicar 

290 


CHURCH,  AND  AFTER  291 

some  day,  would  allow.  Mr.  Petty  was  respectful,  but  there 
was  no  help  to  be  obtained  from  him. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  Sunday-school,  my  lady," 
he  said,  in  answer  to  a  peremptory  order  to  countermand  the 
instructions  already  given.  "  I  do  not  even  teach  in  it.  The 
Vicar  is  solely  responsible." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Lady  Wrotham.  "  But  they  are  the  same 
children  that  come  to  your  school,  are  they  not,  and  it  is  held 
in  the  same  building  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  lady." 

"  Could  you  not  have  stopped  this,  Mr.  Petty  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,  my  lady." 

"  Perhaps  you  did  not  wish  to  stop  it  ?  " 

*^  I  should  not  have  wished  to  stop  it,  even  if  I  had  had  the 
power." 

"  But  don't  you  think  it  a  very  terrible  thing  that  the  very 
children  who  are  under  your  care  during  the  week  should  be 
led  away  into  this  shocking  and  illegal — and  illegal^  Mr.  Petty 
— superstition  on  the  Lord's  Day  ? " 

"  I  do  not  regard  it  so,  my  lady." 

"  Do  I  understand  that  you  are  at  one  with  Mr.  Prentice 
in  desiring  that  the  children  should  attend  mass  in  a  Protestant 
church  ? " 

"  I  regard  the  church  as  Catholic  and  not  Protestant,  my 
lady,  and  I  am  entirely  at  one  with  the  Vicar  in  everything  he 
does." 

"  Then  you  are  not  fit  to  have  the  care  of  the  children 
here,  Mr.  Petty,  and  I  tell  you  so  plainly.  Oh,  what  a 
nest  of  corruption  it  is  !  But  I  have  no  time  to  talk  to  you 
now.  I  must  take  steps  to  stop  this  last  outrage  at  once.  It 
is  done  expressly  to  defy  me.  But  I  warn  you,  Mr.  Petty, 
that  I  have  not  done  with  you  yet.  I  am  shocked  that  you 
should  hold  these  views  and  be  where  you  are.  I  did  not 
think  if  was  possible.     You  must  go  now,' 


292  EXTON  MANOR 

Mr.  Petty  said  *'  Good-morning,  my  lady,"  and  went,  with 
his  private  thoughts  to  keep  him  company.  Lady  Wrotham 
rang  the  bell. 

"  I  am  ready  for  breakfast,"  she  said,  *'  but  I  am  just  going 
to  write  a  note  which  must  be  taken  at  once  to  Mrs. 
Prentice." 

Mrs.  Prentice,  scenting  further  trouble,  answered  the  sum- 
mons at  once,  and  was  shown  into  the  library,  whence  Lady 
Wrotham's  breakfast-table  was  just  being  removed. 

"Mrs.  Prentice,  what  is  this?"  cried  Lady  Wrotham. 
"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  of  this  new  conspiracy  ?  " 

Mrs.  Prentice  blinked  with  apprehension.  "  I — er — what 
is  it  you  refer  to.  Lady  Wrotham  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Oh,  surely  you  know.  I  have  just  heard — only  an  hour 
ago — that  the  Sunday-school  children  are  to  be  dragged 
to  this  travesty  of  a  service  this  morning.  Oh,  it  is  wicked 
— wicked!  And  it  is  all  done  to  show  contempt  and  defiance 
of  my  wishes.  Why  was  I  not  told  ?  You  must  have  known 
it." 

Mrs.  Prentice  breathed  again.  "  I  did,"  she  said ;  "  but  I 
thought  you  knew  it  too.  Lady  Wrotham.  It  was  decided — 
oh,  six  weeks  ago." 

"  I  did  not  know  it.  It  has  been  kept  from  me.  Don't 
you  think  I  should  have  used  every  effort  in  my  power  to 
stop  it  if  I  had  been  aware  of  what  was  on  foot  ?  Don't 
you  know  I  should  ?  Shouldn't  I  have  relied  on  you,  at  any 
rate,  after  what  you  have  told  me  of  your  change  of  con- 
victions, to  do  all  you  could  to  stop  it,  and  tell  me  the  result  ? 
What  have  you  done  to  stop  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  Prentice  faltered.  "  To  tell  you  the  truth,"  she  said, 
"  I  have  had  so  much  to  occupy  my  mind,  that  I  had  forgotten 
it,  until  my  husband  mentioned  it  just  now  at  the  breakfast- 
table.  Then  I  did  say  something,  but,  as  you  know,  Lady 
Wrotham,  I  have  now  so  little  influence  over  him,  that  it  was 


CHURCH,  AND  AFTER  293 

as  good  as  saying  nothing.  He  simply  made  no  answer,  and 
left  the  room  immediately  afterwards." 

"  Of  course.  He  has  determined  to  act  in  defiance  of  me, 
and  to  show  me  that  he  is  determined  so  to  act.  It  is 
monstrous.  But  he  will  see  that  I  can  act  too.  I  have  been 
patient  too  long.  Now  my  patience  is  at  an  end.  What  is 
the  time  ?  Half-past  nine.  Messengers  must  be  sent  round 
to  the  children's  homes  at  once  to  forbid  them  to  come." 

"  But  they  assemble  at  the  school  at  half-past  nine  and  the 
service  commences  at  a  quarter  to  ten." 

"  Then  a  message  must  be  sent  to  the  school.  Oh,  why 
did  I  not  know  of  this  in  time  to  act  ?  Of  course,  Mr. 
Prentice  is  in  sole  command  at  the  school,  as  I  have  just 
learnt  from  Mr.  Petty.  He  would  only  defy  me  further.  It 
is  too  late  to  do  anything  now.  The  abomination  must  be 
committed  this  once.  But  it  never  shall  again.  I  pledge 
myself  to  that.  And  this  I  say :  until  this  apostasy  is 
stopped,  as  I  will  see  that  it  is  stopped,  I  will  have  nothing 
to  do  with  a  church  where  such  things  are  done.  I  will 
not  set  foot  in  it.  Mrs.  Prentice,  I  shall  drive  over  to 
Standon  this  morning.  The  clergyman  there  is  a  God-fearing 
man,  and  a  friend  of  Mr.  Dacre's.  Will  you  show  the  reality 
of  your  change,  and  come  with  me  ?  " 

Surely,  Lady  Wrotham,  if  you  had  thought  a  moment,  you 
would  not  have  demanded  this  final  subservience.  The 
woman  has  striven  so  hard  to  propitiate  you.  She  is  on  such 
terms  with  her  husband  that  the  happiness  of  her  home  is 
likely  to  be  wrecked  for  ever  unless  she  draws  away  from  your 
guidance  and  follows  that  to  which  she  owes  allegiance.  Is 
she  to  be  compelled  to  put  this  crowning  slight  on  one  whom 
she  has  hitherto  supported  in  the  poor  way  best  known  to  her  ? 
Is  the  confidence  of  husband  in  wife  and  of  wife  in  husband 
nothing  that  it  must  be  ruthlessly  destroyed  if  you  can  gain 
one  unwilling  convert  more  .'     Are  you  so  blind  that  you  can- 


294  EXTON  MANOR 

not  see  the  miserable  scaffolding  of  vanity  and  self-deception 
that  upholds  those  professed  convictions  which  you  are  proud 
to  have  instilled  into  her,  and  how  worthless  those  professions 
are,  compared  with  the  wifely  loyalty  which  you  are  pitilessly 
breaking  down  ? 

No,  you  cannot  see.  But  perhaps  she  can.  Her  life  is 
troubled  enough  now,  and  your  favour,  for  which  she  has 
given  up  so  much  that  she  is  only  now  beginning  to  value, 
has  not  done  much  after  all  to  brighten  it.  What  if  she 
breaks  away  now,  under  this  last  weight  crowded  on  to  her 
back,  and  takes  courage  to  say  that  she  has  gone  far  enough 
with  you,  and  will  go  no  farther !  What  would  she  lose  ? 
Would  she  not  rather  gain  something,  at  any  rate,  of  her  van  • 
ished  peace  of  mind,  even  though  you  should  cast  her  out  for 
ever  from  your  august  presence  ? 

She  shrinks  mentally,  and  considers,  has  a  refusal  on  her 
lips,  considers  again  and  gives  in.  The  spell  is  too  strong. 
You  have  gained  another  victory.  Lady  Wrotham.  You  are 
getting  on  famously  in  your  endeavours  to  bring  the  solace  of 
a  true  religion  to  your  new  home. 

Mrs.  Prentice  repaired  to  the  vicarage  to  get  ready  for  her 
expedition.  As  she  walked  through  the  village  she  said  to 
herself  that  if  the  road  to  Standon  from  the  Abbey  had  not 
Iain  in  the  other  direction,  so  that  they  would  not  have  to 
drive  through  the  main  street,  she  would  not  have  gone  ;  on 
such  small  considerations  rest  momentous  decisions,  and  so 
readily  is  the  ostrich  policy  pursued  by  foreseeing  humans. 

Fred  was  at  home,  smoking  and  mooning  in  the  garden. 
To  him  she  briefly  announced  her  intention  of  accompanying 
Lady  Wrotham  to  Standon  church. 

"  I  say,  father  won't  like  that,  will  he  ?  "  he  commented. 

"I  cannot  help  that,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice.  "  He  will  not 
be  guided  by  me,  and  now  Lady  Wrotham  is  so  annoyed  with 
him — I  think  rightly — that  she  refuses  to  go  to  church  here  at 


CHURCH,  AND  AFTER  295 

all.  My  duty  is  to  do  all  I  can  to  keep  in  with  her  and  get 
matters  put  on  a  better  footing." 

"  You're  taking  a  funny  way  of  doing  it,"  said  Fred.  "  I 
think  you're  making  a  great  mistake,  mother.  Still,  it's  no 
affair  of  mine."  He  turned  away.  He  had  other  things  to 
think  of,  and  his  hopes  just  now  were  centred  on  that  very 
Exton  church  which  his  mother  was  forsaking,  for  there  he 
might  seize  opportunities  otherwise  denied  to  him. 

Lady  Wrotham's  carriage  rolled  out  of  the  Gate  House  and 
up  the  hill  on  its  three-mile  drive.  It  was  too  early  for  it  to 
be  met  by  the  churchgoers  coming  down  to  the  Abbey,  for 
which  Mrs.  Prentice  was  thankful.  But  of  course  there  were 
those  who  saw  them  and  wondered,  and  even  if  it  had  not 
been  so,  it  is  difficult  to  see  what  she  would  have  expected  to 
gain  from  a  temporary  ignorance  of  doings  which  would  have 
spread  all  over  the  parish  as  a  matter  of  course  in  a  few  hours' 
time. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  follow  the  conversation  of  the  two 
ladies  on  their  drive  to  the  queer  little  brick  box  of  a  church 
whither  they  were  bound.  Their  arrival  made  some  stir  and 
rather  put  out  the  white-haired  old  clergyman,  whose  usual 
congregation  was  not  much  more  than  a  score  in  the  body  of 
the  building  and  half  as  many  school  children  again  in  a  little 
gallery  above  it.  He  preached  what  Lady  Wrotham  called  a 
simple  gospel  sermon,  with  which  she  expressed  herself  edified 
and  uplifted,  and,  refusing  a  luncheon  invitation  from  Mrs, 
Firmin  of  Standon  House,  she  and  Mrs.  Prentice  drove  back 
to  Exton  again.  One  short  passage  of  their  conversation  on 
the  homeward  journey  may  be  repeated. 

Mrs.  Prentice  had  made  sundry  attempts  to  discover  what 
the  great  lady's  next  move  was  to  be,  but  without  success,  and 
at  length  asked  her  the  question  point  blank. 

"I  shall  lose  no  time  in  writing  to  the  bishop,"  said  Lady 
Wrotham.     "  I   shall  write  this  afternoon.     I  have  a  very 


296  EXTON  MANOR 

strong  case,  and  I  do  not  think  it  will  be  possible  for  him  to 
ignore  it.     If  he  does " 

Mrs.  Prentice  waited  with  growing  apprehension  for  what 
should  come  next.     But  nothing  came. 

«  If  he  does,"  she  faltered. 

"  He  will  not.  I  have  no  doubt  about  that.  I  was  think- 
ing of  what  might  happen  after  he  had giv^n  his  decision.  Mr. 
Prentice  is  so  self-willed  and  so  lawless  that  he  might  refuse 
to  listen  even  to  his  bishop.  I  should  not  be  surprised  to  hear 
it  of  him." 

. "  Certain  things  that  you — that  we  object  to,  Lady  Wro^ 
tham,  I  am  sure  he  would  not  alter,  and  from  what  I  know  of 
the  decisions  made  even  by  evangelical  bishops,  he  would  not 
be  asked  to  alter." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  right.  I  too  know  something  of  the 
time-serving  ways  of  bishops.  Very  well,  then,  if  that  hap- 
pens, Mr.  Prentice  must  go.  I  have  put  up  with  enough. 
He  has  practically  told  me  that  I  have  no  power  to  deprive 
him  of  his  living,  and,  literally  speaking,  that  may  be  true. 
But — well,  I  think  he  would  go." 

"  But,  Lady  Wrotham,  I  should  have  to  go  with  him." 

*'  I  am  afraid  that  is  so,  and  I  should  be  sorry.  But  I  sup- 
pose there  would  be  no  help  for  it.  You  would  have  the  con- 
solation of  knowing  that  you  were  suffering  for  righteousness' 
sake." 

Cold  consolation  this,  perhaps,  even  if  it  were  true,  which 
it  certainly  would  not  be  from  Lady  Wrotham's  point  of  view, 
unless  Mrs.  Prentice  was  to  suffer  for  Lady  Wrotham's 
righteousness.  Mrs.  Prentice  sat  aghast.  Then,  after  all 
that  she  had  done  and  was  still  doing,  after  this  last  submis- 
sion, which  she  was  even  now  beginning  to  regret,  this  was  all 
the  mercy  that  was  to  be  dealt  out  to  her.  Her  hard  obedi- 
ence was  to  be  wrested  from  her,  but  the  punishment  for  re- 
bellion was  to  fall  on  her  shoulders  in  the  same  way  as  if  she 


CHURCH,  AND  AFTER  197 

had  not  obeyed  at  all.  A  spirit  of  rebellion  was  wrung  from 
her  now. 

"  I  think  that  is  rather  hard,"  she  said.  "  I  as  well  as  my 
husband  are  to  be  ruined,  because  he  follows  his  conscience — 
for,  after  all,  obstinate  as  he  is,  it  is  a  matter  of  conscience 
with  him." 

"  A  pretty  sort  of  conscience ! "  said  Lady  Wrotham. 
"  But  there  is  no  question  of  ruin,  Mrs.  Prentice.  A  living 
could  be  found  for  him  elsewhere  where  he  would  do  less 
harm.  And  in  any  case,  I  should  see  to  it  that  you,  after  the 
way  you  have  followed  the  light,  should  not  suffer — more  than 
could  be  helped." 

With  this  vague  consolation  Mrs.  Prentice  had  to  be  con- 
tent, and  she  thought  that,  perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  a  mistake 
for  her  to  have  come  to  Standon  church  with  Lady  Wrotham, 

Lady  Wrotham  wrote  to  the  Bishop  of  Archester  that  after- 
noon as  she  had  threatened  to  do.  She  invited  his  lordship 
to  dine  and  sleep  at  Exton  Abbey  at  any  time  that  would  be 
convenient  to  him,  and  talk  things  over.  She  also  hoped  that 
he  would  bring  his  wife  with  him.  But  in  case  his  engage- 
ments should  prevent  his  accepting  her  invitation  at  an  early 
date,  she  begged  him  to  look  into  certain  matters  without 
delay.  There  followed  a  recital  of  these  matters,  and  Lady 
Wrotham  could  have  wished  when  she  had  written  them  that 
they  looked  more  formidable,  for  she  knew  well  that  practices 
such  as  she  complained  of  were  not  only  allowed  but  even 
encouraged  by  some  bishops,  and  she  was  doubtful  whether 
the  chief  cause  of  her  annoyance  on  account  of  them — that 
they  were  carried  on  in  a  parish  in  which  her  will  should  have 
been  paramount — would  strike  his  lordship  with  the  same 
force  as  it  struck  her.  If  only  Exton  had  been  in  the  diocese 
of  Danesborough,  whose  bishop  would  have  put  down  any- 
thing and  anybody  in  return  for  an  invitation  for  himself  and 
his  wife  from  Lady  Wrotham  !     But  it  was  of  no  use  to  think 


298  EXTON  MANOR 

about  that.  She  could  only  hope  that  the  Bishop  or  rirchcster 
and  his  wife  might  find  it  convenient  to  visit  her,  and  if  not 
that  he  would  write  something  that  she  could  take  advantage 
of.  At  any  rate  she  had  done  her  duty  in  writing  to  him,  and 
if  nothing  came  of  it,  well,  there  were  still  weapons  left  in  her 
armoury. 

When  he  heard  of  his  wife's  last  act  of  rebellion,  which  he 
did  in  the  vestry  after  the  morning  service,  the  Vicar  was  so 
angry  that  he  ran  a  grave  risk  of  losing  all  the  merit  he  had 
acquired  from  the  religious  exercises  of  the  morning;  but, 
before  he  had  the  opportunity  of  giving  vent  to  his  displeasure, 
he  bethought  himself,  and  with  a  self-discipline  that  did  credit 
alike  to  his  head  and  his  heart,  determined  to  go  on  with  his 
method  of  treatment,  and  ignore  the  ofFence.  So  that,  when 
Mrs.  Prentice  arrived  home,  seriously  perturbed  as  to  what 
should  befall  her,  she  was  met  with  cold  indifference,  and 
the  retorts  which  she  had  prepared  against  reproach  became 
weapons  of  attack  on  herself  and  caused  her  considerable  dis- 
comfort. Fred  inquired  of  her  over  the  vicarage  dinner-table 
whether  she  had  enjoyed  her  outing,  and  her  reply  that  she 
had  not  anticipated  enjoyment  from  going  to  church  on  Sunday 
morning,  caused  him  to  express  amusement,  against  which  she 
defended  herself  by  accusing  him  of  meaning  amusement  when 
he  had  used  the  word  enjoyment.  The  Vicar  sat  silent  through 
the  little  dispute  and  then  turned  the  conversation.  *'  I  thought 
you  and  I  might  have  a  walk  together  this  afternoon,"  he  said 
to  his  son.  "We  would  start  after  school  at  four  o'clock  and 
we  can  get  back  to  tea  at  about  half-past  five." 

"  Lady  Wrotham  has  very  kindly  asked  me  to  take  Fred  to 
tea  with  her  this  afternoon,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice.  "  I  think, 
perhaps,  he  had  better  come." 

The  Vicar  was  silent.  Fred  was  silent  too,  for  a  moment. 
He  had  plans  for  the  afternoon  which  did  not  fit  in  with 
either  of  these  suggested  to  him.     "  I  said  I  would  go  to  tea 


CHURCH,  AND  AFTER  299 

with  Mrs.  O'Keefe  this  afternoon,"  he  said  boldly.     It  is  true 
that  he  had  said  it,  but  only  to  himself. 

Mrs,  Prentice  proved  singularly  complacent  over  the  down- 
fall of  her  arrangements.  "  Well,  to-morrow  will  do  for  the 
Abbey,"  she  said.     "You  are  not  going  till  Tuesday." 

"Couldn't  you  call  on  Mrs.  O'Keefe  while  I  am  at  the 
school  ?  "  said  the  Vicar.  "  I  shall  be  away  for  the  whole  day 
to-morrow,  and  I  should  like  a  walk  and  a  talk  with  you,  Fred." 

Fred  did  not  see  his  way  to  refuse  this  suggestion,  and  gave 
way,  not  with  the  best  of  grace.  His  determination  had 
arisen  from  certain  occurrences  of  the  morning.  He  had  gone 
down  to  the  church  at  about  a  quarter  to  eleven  and  waited 
about  in  the  churchyard  until  the  bell  finally  ceased  ringing. 
When  he  had  at  last  gone  in  he  had  seen  Norah  O'Keefe 
in  her  seat  just  in  front  of  the  vicarage  pew  and  Mrs.  Red 
clifFe  and  Hilda  with  her.  He  supposed  that  all  three  had 
been  to  the  earlier  service  and  remained  to  the  latter,  which 
was  the  case.  He  had  then  sat  and  stood  and  knelt  for  an 
hour  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  dark  coils  of  Norah's  hair, 
neat  in  their  careful  twining  under  a  most  becoming  hat,  on 
a  little  ear  made  for  lyrical  rhapsody,  and  on  the  soft  bloom 
of  a  sloping  cheek.  He  had  longed  for  larger  fields  of  wonder 
and  delight  to  explore,  but  none  had  been  opened  out  to  him, 
for  the  fair  worshipper  had  turned  neither  to  the  right  nor  to 
the  left.  He  spent  most  of  the  time  in  which  he  should  have 
been  listening  to  his  father's  sermon  in  calculations  as  to 
which  way  the  offertory  bag  might  be  expected  to  pass  along 
the  seat  in  front  of  him.  If  various  things  happened,  which 
were  not  very  likely  to  happen,  she  might  turn  round  and 
hand  it  to  him,  perhaps  with  a  smile  of  recognition;  but 
when  the  time  came  these  things  did  not  happen,  and  he  gave 
his  shilling  grudgingly  and  of  necessity,  without  having  gained 
more  than  a  mere  glance  at  her  profile  as  she  handed  the  bag 
to  the  churchwarden. 


300  EXTON  MANOR 

During  the  singing  of  the  last  hymn  Hilda  RedclifFe  turned 
and  looked  at  him,  without  friendliness,  and  instantly  with- 
drew her  gaze.  His  at  that  moment  was  fastened  intently  on 
the  point  of  the  ear  aforementioned,  with  an  expression  that 
may  have  afforded  her  some  enlightenment. 

When  church  was  over  he  suddenly  relinquished  his  in- 
tention of  waiting  till  she  left  her  seat  and  walking  down  the 
aisle  with  her,  and  hurried  out  to  stand  by  the  porch.  Then, 
without  waiting,  he  pushed  on  to  the  gate,  and  then  further 
on  still  to  a  point  at  which  she  and  the  RedclifFes  would  have 
parted  if  both  should  be  going  straight  back  to  their  homes. 
When  he  had  reached  this  point  he  turned  back  again,  be- 
cause, if  she  should  be  going  to  walk  through  the  park  a  little 
way  with  her  friends  he  would  miss  her  altogether,  and  to 
risk  that  would  be  worse  than  to  greet  her  under  the  eyes  ot 
Mrs.  RedclifFe  and  Hilda. 

He  raised  his  hat  to  the  three  ladies  in  common,  but  his 
eyes  were  on  Norah.  She  greeted  him  with  some  signs  of 
embarrassment,  as  if  she  would  rather  have  been  without  the 
necessity  of  greeting  him  at  all.  Mrs.  RedclifFe  said,  "  How 
do  you  do,  Fred  ? "  without  a  smile,  and  without  offering  to 
shake  hands.  Hilda  turned  away  without  saying  anything, 
and  the  question  now  arose  as  to  what  he  should  do  next. 

It  appeared  that  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  go  away, 
for  Norah  turned  with  her  friends  along  a  field-path  towards 
the  park,  and  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  accompany  them. 

"  It's  that  girl,"  he  said  to  himself  angrily,  as  he  walked 
home.  "  She  has  given  her  some  account  of  what  happened 
yesterday  that  has  set  her  against  me." 

The  hours  were  slipping  away.  He  would  be  gone  very 
shortly ;  half  his  time  had  gone  already,  and  he  had  made  no 
headway — had  gone  back  since  that  propitious  and  memo- 
rable train  journey.  He  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  go 
again   to   see   her    that   afternoon.     He   would   need   some 


CHURCH,  AND  AFTER  301 

courage  because  he  had  presented  himself  three  times  at  her 
house  the  day  before  and  she  had  not  apparently  desired 
greatly  to  see  him,  and  now  probably  desired  it  still  less. 
Still,  it  was  his  only  chance,  and  if  he  once  got  her  alone 
he  thought  he  would  be  able  to  throw  off  his  diffidence  and 
make  his  admiration  understood.  That  was  imperative,  if 
he  were  to  go  any  farther,  and  of  course  he  must  go  farther. 
What  lover  could  be  content  to  stand  still  ? 

So,  then,  matters  stood,  and  after  luncheon  he  escaped 
from  his  mother,  who  would  have  liked  to  talk  to  him,  and 
indeed,  to  advise  him  upon  the  very  matter  he  had  in  hand, 
if  she  could  have  gained  his  confidence,  and  walked  in  the 
outermost  parts  of  the  vicarage  glebe  until  three  o'clock, 
when  he  went  over  to  Street  House. 

Bridget,  who  was  on  duty  that  afternoon,  received  him 
with  no  special  marks  of  favour,  but  showed  him  straight 
into  Norah's  drawing-room,  where  she  was  reading  in  a  chair 
by  the  open  window.  Neither  did  her  look  express  pleasure 
at  his  advent,  but  some  surprise  and  perhaps  a  shade  of 
annoyance. 

"  You'll  think  I'm  always  turning  up,"  he  said.  "  But  I 
couldn't  get  a  word  with  you  yesterday." 

Still  some  further  explanation  seemed  necessary,  and  he 
supplied  what  he  could,  not  altogether  pleased  to  be  obliged 
to  advert  to  the  affairs  of  the  RedclifFes  again, 

"  I  went  up  to  the  White  House  yesterday  morning,  you 
know,"  he  began.     But  she  struck  in  — 

"  Oh,  I  have  heard  all  about  that,  Mr.  Prentice.  We 
needn't  talk  about  it  any  more." 

"Well,I  wanted  to  tell  you  thatlhaddoneeverythinglcould." 

"  Please  sit  down,"  she  said.  "  Mr.  Prentice,  I  don't 
think  you  were  very  successful  in  what  you  did.  If  I  had 
known  that  you  were  no  longer  a  close  friend  of  the  Red' 
clifFes  I  would  not  ha^e  asked  you  to  go." 


302  EXTON  MANOR 

«  But — but — I  was  their  friend  until  they  practically  told 
me  that  they  didn't  want  my  friendship." 

"  Because  it  was  quite  plain  that  they  had  already  lost  it. 
I  can  quite  believe  that  they  didn't  want  the  kind  of  luke- 
warm support  you  offered  them  instead  of  it." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  O'Keefe,  you  can't  have  heard  the  true  story 
of  what  happened.  I  said  that  what  had  happened  would 
make  absolutely  no  difference  in — in  me,  and " 

"  You  wouldn't  have  wanted  to  say  that  if  it — if  there  had 
been  no  difference.  Can't  you  see  that  it  isn't  what  you  say 
that  your  friends  go  by  ?  it  is  what  you  are  to  them ;  and, 
whatever  you  say,  they  know  well  enough  whether  you  are 
the  same  or— there  is  a  difference.  Hilda  knew,  of  course, 
that  there  was — a  difference.  Why,  even  I  can  see  it, 
although  she  has  said  very  little  to  me  and  I  didn't  know 
you  before." 

"  I  dare  say  you  can  see  it,"  he  said.  "  I  hope  you  can, 
for  you  are  the  cause  of  it." 

*'  I !  "     She  drew  herself  in  with  a  look  of  frank  distaste. 

"Yes.  It's  no  use  trying  to  hide  it,  and  I  don't  want  to 
hide  it.  I  shan't  be  here  long,  and  I  must  tell  you  now.  Of 
course  Hilda  Redcliffe  and  I  are  friends  and  I  liked  her  and 
— and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  But  that  came  to  an  end  the 
moment  I  saw  you.     You  must  know  that  I " 

"  Oh,  please  stop,"  she  said,  her  face  flaming  and  her 
hands  raised  to  her  ears  as  if  she  would  have  shut  out  the 
sound  of  his  torrent  of  words.  *'  You  mustn't  say  such 
things  to  me.  It  is  absurd,  and,  really,  Mr.  Prentice,  it  is 
rather  impertinent.  We  are  hardly  more  than  complete 
strangers,  and  you  can't  think  that  in  any  case  I  would 
listen  to  you." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  he  said.  "  What  I  say  is  as  true  as  any- 
thing can  be.  I  don't  care  how  long  we  have  known  each 
other.     I  loved  you  the  first  moment  I  saw  you,  and  I  love 


CHURCH,  AND  AFTER  303 

you  now,  better  than  anything  in  the  world.  It  can't  be 
impertinent  to  say  that." 

"  It  is.  It  is.  And  do  you  think  that  I  would  listen  to 
you,  even  if — if — oh,  it  is  too  absurd,  but — if  I  wanted  to, 
when  you  have  behaved  so  badly  to  Hilda  ?  You  don't  think 
at  all  about  her.  Do  you  really  think  you  can  come  straight 
from  her  to  me,  and — say  such  things  ?  " 

Why  is  it  that  a  lover  in  the  state  of  mind  which  had  over- 
taken this  lover  can  never  see  when  his  suit  is  quite  hope- 
less, but  must  go  on  urging  it  ?  ''  I  wouldn't  have  said 
anything,"  Fred  went  on,  "  so  soon — I  didn't  mean  to  say 
a  word  when  I  came  here — I  hadn't  an  idea  of  it.  But  I 
can't  help  it.  This  wretched  business  has  come  up  and 
spoilt  everything.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  I  should  have 
seen  you  while  I  am  here,  and — I'd  have  waited,  although 
I  don't  want  to  wait  to  know  my  own  mind.  That  was  made 
up  directly  I  saw  you." 

"  Oh,  please  stop,"  she  said,  holding  her  hand  in  front 
of  her  as  if  to  close  his  mouth  actually ;  "  please  stop.  I 
can't  listen  to  you.  I  don't  want  to  listen  to  you.  It  is  all 
so  wild,  and — so  absurd." 

"You  keep  on  saying  it  is  absurd,"  he  interrupted  her 
again.  "  It  isn't  absurd  for  a  man  to  fall  in  love  with  a 
woman — with  such  a  woman  as  you,  the  very  first  time  he 
sees  her.     And  it  is  not  absurd  for  him  to  tell  her  so." 

"Very  well,  then,"  she  said.  "Now  you  have  told  me, 
and  I  won't  say  that  it  is  absurd  any  more,  but  I  will  say 
that  I  hope  you  will  go  away  and  say  no  more  about  it." 

She  spoke  with  dawning  anger,  and  as  he  looked  at  her 
he  felt  himself  beaten.  But  he  made  another  effort.  "  I  dare 
say  I  have  spoken  too  soon,"  he  said,  "  but  I  couldn't  help 
myself.  You  won't  send  me  away  because  of  that,  will  you  ? 
You'll  let  me  see  you  while  I'm  here,  and — and " 

"  No,"  she  said  decisively.     "  I  would  very  much  rather  not.** 


304  EXTON  MANOR 

"  You  are  afraid  I  should  worry  you,  I  suppose." 

She  looked  down  at  the  book  on  her  knee  and  turned  over 
some  of  its  pages.     Then  she  looked  up  with  a  smile. 

"  Well,  wouldn't  you  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Isn't  that  what  you 
want  to  see  me  for  ?  " 

He  took  heart  at  the  smile  and  gave  her  one  in  return, 
rather  rueful.  "  I  wouldn't  worry  you,"  he  said.  "  At  any 
rate  until  I  knew  you — till  you  knew  me  better.  But  you 
can't  tell  me  to  go  away  now,  like  this,  with  nothing  to  look 
forward  to — nothing  to  hope  for." 

She  grew  serious  again.  ''  There  is  nothing  to  hope  for 
in  the  way  you  mean,"  she  said.  *'  Nothing  at  all.  No,  I 
don't  want  you  to  come  here  and  I  must  ask  you  not  to,  Mr. 
Prentice.  You  know  how  I  stand  with  your  mother.  I  don't 
want  to  go  into  it  all  again  with  you.  But  I  won't  be  friends 
with  her,  I  won't  see  her,  while  she  is  behaving  as  she 
does  now,  and  it  would  be  unpleasant  to  me,  and,  I  think, 
to  her,  if  you  were  to  come  here  while  she  doesn't.  I  don't 
want  you  to.  And  besides,  I  haven't  said  much  about  the 
RedclifFes,  but  I  feel  now  that  they  do  not  want  you  any 
more  than  they  want  Mrs.  Prentice.  And  it  is  they  who  are 
my  friends  here.  You  haven't  behaved  well  to  Hilda — you 
know  you  haven't ;  you  must  feel  it  in  your  heart  of  hearts. 
And  to  think  that  I — oh,  no,  Mr,  Prentice,  I  won't  say  a 
word  about  what  you  have  told  me,  but  it  must  end  there. 
Indeed  it  must,  once  and  for  all." 

"  I  can't  take  that  answer,"  he  said  doggedly  ;  "  I  am  in 
earnest,  and  I  couldn't  leave  ofFloving  you  now  if  I  wanted  to." 

Her  eyes  flashed.  "  You  can  leave  off  telling  me  about  it," 
she  said,  "  and  you  must  do  so.  I've  heard  enough,  and  per- 
haps I  have  been  too  patient  with  you." 

He  sat  still  gloomy  and  dejected.  She  looked  at  him  with 
a  frown.  "  I  have  nothing  more  to  say,"  she  said  sharply. 
"  I  hope  you  will  go  away  now,  and  not  come  again." 


CHURCH,  AND  AFTER  305 

Her  tone  stung  him.  He  raised  his  eyes  to  hers.  "  I  think 
you  might  put  some  value  on  my  feelings  towards  you,"  he 
said,  "  even  if  you  can't  return  them." 

Her  Irish  temper  flamed  forth.  She  sprang  from  her  seat. 
*'  Return  them  !  "  she  cried.  "  What  nonsense  you  are  talk- 
ing !  I  wish  you  would  go  away.  You  annoy  me  deeply. 
I  don't  want  you.  I  know  nothing  of  you,  and  what  I  do 
know  I  don't  like.  I  think  Hilda  RedclifFe  is  quite  right  not 
to  have  anything  more  to  do  with  you.  I  don't  know  why 
she  ever  had  anything  to  do  with  you  at  all.  And  you  come 
straight  to  me,  almost  a  complete  stranger,  and  tell  me  that 
it  is  owing  to  me  you  have  behaved  to  her  as  you  have.  It 
is  absurd,  and  it  is  impertinent."  She  moved  towards  the  bell. 
"  If  you  won't  go,"  she  said,  "  I  shall  ring  and  ask  my  maid 
to  show  you  out.     I  never  want  to  see  you  again." 

"  I'll  go,"  he  said.  "  But  I  think  you  will  be  sorry  for  the 
way  you  have  spoken  to  me  when  you  come  to  think  of  it." 

"  That  is  just  the  sort  of  thing  Mrs.  Prentice  would  say,'* 
she  said.  "  I  have  nothing  to  be  sorry  for.  I  shall  try  and 
forget  this  very  unpleasant  visit  as  soon  as  I  can.  No,  I 
won't  shake  hands.  We  are  not  friends,  and  I  don't  want 
to  be." 

He  left  her  without  another  word,  rejected  finally,  and  not 
without  ignominy.  "  What  a  fool  I  was  !  "  he  said  to  him- 
self bitterly  as  he  walked  back  to  the  vicarage ;  and  during 
the  walk  with  his  father,  when  he  tried  his  best  to  talk  and 
hide  his  unhappiness,  these  words  repeated  themselves  again 
and  again  in  his  mind  as  a  refrain  to  everything  that  was  said. 
"  What  a  fool  I  was  !  "  And  the  train  dinned  them  into  his 
ears  as  he  travelled  up  to  London  the  next  morning,  for  he 
had  cut  short  his  visit,  and  resolved  that  he  would  not  repeat 
it  for  many  months.     "  What  a  fool  I  was  !  " 

But  perhaps  it  was  as  well  for  him  that  he  had  put  his 
fortune  to  the  test  and  lost  it.     For  when  the  door  had  closed 


3o6  EXTON  MANOR 

behind  him,  and  Norah  O'Keefe  was  left  alone,  she  burst  into 
angry  tears.  Then  she  went  and  stood  before  the  picture  of 
her  gallant  young  husband  and  cried,  "  As  if  I  would  !  As 
if  I  could !  And  a  man  like  that !  I  hate  him  for  asking 
me,  but  I  should  have  hated  him  just  as  much  if  he  hadn't 
spoken  now  and  given  me  the  chance  of  getting  rid  of  him 
once  for  all.     I  am  glad,  after  all,  that  he  did." 

Then  she  dried  her  eyes  and  went  back  to  her  book,  but 
found  that  its  interest  had  departed.  She  kept  looking  out  of 
the  window  into  the  garden  and  her  face  was  at  first  stormy 
and  then  sad.  By  and  bye  she  smiled,  and  finally  laughed. 
Then  she  sprang  up  from  her  chair.  "  I  should  like  to  tell 
Hilda,"  she  said.  *'  It  would  clear  away  any  feeling  she  may 
have  kept  for  that  young  man.  But,  of  course,  I  can't.  But 
I'll  go  and  have  tea  with  the  dear  people.  If  I  stay  by  ray- 
self  I  shall  get  melancholy." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

BROWNE    IS    PRECIPITATE 

Sophia  Riddell,  who  took  brevet  rank  as  Mrs.  Riddell  in 
Lady  Wrotham's  household,  was  a  very  important  member 
of  that  society.  Her  religious  views  were  such  as  to  insure 
the  full  confidence  of  her  mistress,  or  she  would  not  have 
been  where  she  was,  and  her  discretion  was  perfect.  It  is 
doubtful  whether  the  great  lady  quite  realized  what  this  elderly 
spinster,  who  understood  her  ways  so  completely  that  she 
forestalled  all  her  wishes  and  seldom  had  to  be  told  to 
do  a  thing  once,  and  never  twice,  meant  to  her,  and  what  a 
blank  there  would  be  in  her  life  if  the  invaluable  Riddell 
for  any  reason  should  go  out  of  it.  Lady  Wrotham  liked 
gossip,  although  it  would  have  shocked  her  to  hear  it  as  much 
as  if  she  had  been  told  that  she  liked  drink ;  and  Riddell  was 
an  inveterate  gossip.  But  what  a  gossip  !  She  was  as  far 
above  the  habits  of  the  ordinary  tongue-wagging,  prying  and 
peering  village  matron  as  the  imperial  financier  who  thinks  in 
continents,  and  only  incidentally  in  gold  and  diamond  mines, 
is  above  the  shady  company  promoter  who  collects  the  odds 
and  ends  of  savings,  no  matter  from  where.  The  odds  and 
ends  came  to  her,  but  they  came  because  it  was  considered  an 
honour  to  bring  them.  She  would  not  have  moved  a  foot  or 
turned  an  ear  to  collect  them,  nor  would  she  have  expressed  a 
hint  of  interest  in  them  for  the  world.  But  they  came  never- 
theless, and  to  all  appearances  were  lost  in  the  secret  caverns 
of  her  discretion  and  lost  for  ever,  nevermore  to  flow  forth  in 
refreshing  rills  and  trickles  to  water  the  thirsty  soil  of  curios- 
ity, and  spread  their  beneficent  influence  in  widening  circles. 

307 


3o8  EXTON  MANOR 

Nor  did  they  so  flow  forth  j  but  there  was  an  outlet  all  the 
same.  Every  drop  of  gossip  that  filtered  through  the  surface 
of  that  impassive,  but  none  the  less  receptive,  demeanour  went 
to  swell  one  rich,  deep  stream,  which  was  poured  out  night  and 
morning  for  the  refreshment  of  her  mistress,  and  none  other. 
It  welled  forth  copiously  but  quietly,  as  is  the  way  with  deep 
waters,  with  never  a  ripple  or  a  splash  of  eagerness  to  betray 
its  quality,  and  it  was  absorbed  again  in  other  discretionary 
caverns,  where  it  either  slept  undisturbed,  or  rose  up  in  fruit- 
ful springs  to  water  the  higher  levels. 

All  of  which  means  nothing  more  than  that  Mrs.  Riddell 
performed  for  the  great  lady  the  part  of  reader,  and  gave  her 
night  and  morning  selections  from  the  book  of  servants*  and 
village  gossip,  the  pages  of  which  she  would  not  and  could  not 
have  turned  over  for  herself. 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  Lady  Wrotham  knew  that 
Turner  had  gone  down  to  propose  to  Mrs.  O'Keefe  the  day 
after  he  had  done  so,  and  that  he  had  not  succeeded  in  his  ob- 
ject, and  that  he  had  since  relinquished  it  j  and  that  Browne 
would  probably  some  day  do  the  same ;  and  that  Fred  Prentice 
had  also  fallen  a  victim  to  the  same  overpowering  attraction, 
having  left  a  former  pursuit  with  surprising  suddenness ;  and 
that  he  had  probably  been  dismissed,  but  this  was  not  yet  quite 
certain ;  also  of  Mrs.  Prentice's  ignominious  repulse  at  the  door 
of  Street  House,  and  of  that  warm  evening  flitting  to  the  nest 
of  injured  friends,  and  the  freshly-riveted  chain  of  affection 
that  bound  them. 

To  these  things  Lady  Wrotham  listened,  making  what 
comments  were  suitable  for  the  ears  of  her  informant,  and 
others,  quite  different  from  them,  in  her  own  mind.  One  of 
these  latter  was  that  she  hoped  it  would  not  be  long  before  she 
should  have  an  opportunity  of  inspecting  this  Mrs. 
O'Keefe,  and  another  that  it  should  not  be  long  before  she 
came  to  an  understanding  with  Mr.  Browne  on   these  and 


BROWNE  IS  PRECIPITATE  309 

sundry  matters.  It  was  not,  and  she  acknowledged  to  herself 
that  it  was  not,  strictly  speaking,  her  business  to  interfere  in 
matters  of  this  sort  amongst  those  upon  whom  she  looked  as 
her  subjects.  But  the  fact  was  that  she  felt  she  should  like  to 
take  a  hand  in  them,  a  friendly,  helpful  hand,  it  might  very 
well  be,  if  she  saw  reason  to  approve  of  developments  pro- 
gressing so  far  without  her  assistance.  She  wanted  to  be  a 
friend  to  her  subjects,  as  well  as  a  ruler,  but  so  far  she  had 
not  been  very  fortunate  in  drawing  them  into  the  net  of  her 
patronage.  Of  all  the  better  class  inhabitants  of  her  new 
kingdom,  only  Mrs.  Prentice  had  shown  the  least  desire  to 
respond  to  her  influence,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  she  was  getting 
rather  tired  of  Mrs.  Prentice,  as  one  gets  tired  of  any  dish  if 
it  is  the  only  one  set  before  one.  She  had  only  been  at  Exton 
a  month,  and  she  had  already  quarrelled  with  the  Vicar,  quar- 
relled by  proxy  with  Mrs.  RedclifFe  and  her  daughter,  quar- 
relled with  Captain  Turner,  and  gone  very  near  to  quarrelling 
with  Mr.  Browne.  Or  perhaps  it  would  be  more  correct  to 
say  that  all  these  several  people  had  in  the  most  unaccountable 
way  gone  to  work  to  pick  quarrels  with  her,  who  wished  them 
nothing  but  well,  if  only  they  would  behave  themselves  and 
take  their  proper  places  in  the  scheme  of  things.  It  was  ab- 
surd, though,  to  suppose  that  she  should  allow  Mr.  Browne  to 
pick  a  quarrel  with  her.  His  position  did  not  permit  him  to 
indulge  in  such  luxuries,  and  if  he  was  under  the  impression 
that  it  did,  his  mind  must  be  disabused  of  that  tendency. 

Behold,  then,  our  Maximilian  Browne,  summoned  from  his 
office  at  eleven  o'clock  on  Monday  morning  when  he  was  just 
in  the  thick  of  mapping  out  his  week's  work  and  that  of  his 
subordinates,  perspiring  pinkly  on  a  low  chair  opposite  to 
that  of  the  great  lady  and  devoutly  wishing  himself  back 
whence  he  had  come. 

She  had  opened  up  on  him  with  the  subject  of  the  new  ten- 
ants for  the  Lodge,  and  had  expressed  her  surprise  that  they, 


310  EXTON  MANOR 

or  at  all  events  a  sample  of  them,  had  not  been  submitted  to 
her,  prior  to  acceptance. 

"  I  certainly  think,"  she  said,  "  that  considering  the  Lodge  is 
the  most  important  house  in  the  place  next  to  this,  or  the  most 
important  in  the  immediate  surroundings,  I  ought  to  have  been 
consulted  on  the  matter  before  anything  was  finally  decided." 

*'  The  references "  began  Browne,  but  she  took  him  up. 

"  Oh,  the  references  !  "  she  exclaimed  impatiently.  "  I 
have  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Dale  has  got  plenty  of  money,  or,  at 
any  rate,  enough  money.  That  is  not  the  point,  Mr.  Browne. 
With  people  living  practically  on  one's  door-step,  one  wants 
more  than  that.  What  do  you  know  of  these  people — socially 
I  mean  ?  He  was  a  friend  of  Sir  Joseph  Chapman  and  comes 
from  Manchester.  I  have  nothing  against  Sir  Joseph  Chap- 
man, except  that — no,  I  have  nothing  against  him.  But  this 
man,  he  may  be  a  Radical  or  a  Dissenter,  for  all  you  know." 

Browne  had  a  horrible  suspicion,  undivulged  as  yet  to  any- 
body, that  he  was  both.  He  had  been  over  to  Woodhurst  to 
lunch  with  Mr.  Dale,  and  from  certain  things  that  Mr.  Dale 
had  let  drop  in  the  course  of  conversation,  this  dark  suspicion 
had  arisen.  He  had  comforted  himself  by  saying  that  these 
things  were  not  much  in  his  line,  and  that  he  might  have  been 
mistaken ;  but  he  might  rather  have  said  that  if  the  suspicion 
had  occurred  to  him  in  spite  of  his  lack  of  knowledge,  it  was 
probably  justified. 

"  Is  it  too  late  to  stop  it  ?  "  asked  Lady  Wrotham  ;  "  at  any 
rate  until  I  have  had  an  opportunity  of  judging  what  sort  of 
people  they  are  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  it  is,"  replied  Browne.  "  The  lease  is  signed 
and  everything,  and  the  work  is  nearly  finished.  They  are 
coming  in  next  week." 

"  Well,  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  you  have  not  behaved 
well  about  this,  Mr.  Browne.  Of  course  you  will  tell  me 
that  everything  has  been  submitted  to  Lord  Wrotham  a«d  he 


BROWNE  IS  PRECIPITATE  311 

has  approved.  But  you  ought  to  feel,  knowing  the  circum- 
stances as  you  do,  that  something  is  owing  to  me  in  such  mat- 
ters as  these.  He  will  not  consider  it,  and  I  should  not  go  out 
of  my  way  to  beg  him  to  do  so.  Certainly  not.  But  because 
my  son  is  careless  of  my  wishes  that  is  no  reason  why  others 
should  be.     I  ought  to  have  been  consulted." 

"  Well,  I  felt  that,"  said  Browne  desperately.  He  could 
not  very  well  tell  the  indignant  dame  that  he  had  warned  his 
employer  that  there  might  arise  this  very  difficulty  that  had 
now  arisen,  and  his  employer  had  said,  "  If  you  are  going  to 
refuse  every  good  tenant  that  comes  along  unless  my  mother 
approves  of  him,  we'd  better  shut  up  shop  and  go  into  bank- 
ruptcy at  once.  Make  out  the  lease,  my  stout  friend,  and 
don't  be  a  fool." 

"  I  felt  that.  Lady  Wrotham,"  he  said.  "  But  Mr.  Dale  is 
such  a  good  tenant,  and  is  doing  much  more  than  we'd  any 
right  to  ask,  that  we  couldn't  very  well  refuse  him,  and  Lord 
Wrotham  told  me  to  put  the  matter  through." 

"  Very  well,  then,"  she  said.  "  There  is  nothing  more  to 
be  said,  and  we  must  make  the  best  of  things.  But,  you  will 
oblige  me,  Mr.  Browne,  by  consulting  me  in  the  future  on 
these  matters  before  anything  is  finally  settled." 

Browne  promised  to  do  so,  all  the  more  readily  as  all  the 
houses  on  the  Manor  were  now  let  on  substantial  leases,  and 
the  first  part  of  his  ordeal  was  over. 

"  There  is  another  matter  I  wished  to  speak  to  you  about, 
Mr.  Browne,"  said  Lady  Wrotham.  "  I  hear  that — that  Mrs. 
O'Keefe,  whose  acquaintance  I  have  not  yet  had  the  pleasure 
of  making,  has — I  don't  quite  know  how  to  put  it — has  such 
great  personal  attractions,  that  the  whole  village  is  talking 
about  the  way  in  which  she  is  being  run  after." 

Browne  sat  and  stared  at  her  with  his  mouth  open.  It  was 
the  only  way  in  which  he  could  express  the  devastating  sense 
of  surprise  produced  by  her  words. 


312  EXTON  MANOR 

"You  will  say,"  she  proceeded,  "that  this  has  nothing  to 
do  with  me,  and  that  you  are  surprised  that  I  should  have  the 
courage  to  mention  it." 

This  was  about  what  Browne  would  have  said  if  he  could 
have  found  his  tongue  and  dared  to  use  it  freely.  Except  that 
he  would  have  substituted  the  word  "  cheek  "  for  "  courage." 
As  it  was  he  said  nothing. 

"  I  do  so  in  no  spirit  of  interference,"  she  went  on,  "  but  I 
should  just  like  to  say  this,  and  I  shall  not  object  if  my  words 
are  repeated  to  Captain  Turner  and  young  Mr.  Prentice.  I 
think  it  is  a  pity  that  the  name  of  a  young  widow  of  Mrs. 
O'Keefe's  position  should  be  bandied  about  in  this  fashion.  I 
venture  to  say  it,  because  I  am  the  only  woman  who  is  in  a 
position  to  say  it,  and  these  things  must  be  said  by  a  woman  or 
not  at  all — unless,  of  course,  the  lady  in  question  had  a  rela- 
tion in  the  place  or  near  it  who  could  look  after  her  reputa- 
tion." 

"  Her  reputation  !  "  echoed  Browne,  with  a  sunset  flush  of 
indignation  and  self-consciousness  mantling  his  features. 

"  Yes,  her  reputation.  Here  is  a  young  widow,  a  very 
young  widow,  beautiful,  so  I  am  told  and  can  well  believe,  and 
of  high  birth.  She  settles  down  after  her  sad  loss  in  a  quiet 
country  place,  away  from  her  relations  and  connections,  and  she 
ought  to  be  treated  with  the  utmost  respect.  She  ought  not  to 
be  talked  about  all  over  the  place  as  a  lady  to  whom  every 
bachelor  in  the  neighbourhood  is  paying  his  attentions.  There 
is  Captain  Turner  pursuing  her,  whose  birth  and  upbringing, 
by  his  own  confession,  is  in  no  way  equal  to  hers ;  there  is 
young  Mr.  Prentice,  who  cannot  be  much  more  than  a  boy, 
and  has  his  way  to  make  entirely,  and  from  what  I  can  hear  is 
likely  to  make  a  great  mess  in  doing  it ;  and,  Mr.  Browne, 
there  is  yourself — you  will  excuse  me  for  speaking  quite 
plainly " 

"  Oh,  certainly.  Lady  Wrotham,"  said  Browne,  who  had  by 


BROWNE  IS  PRECIPITATE  313 

this  time  collected  his  scattered  brains  and  was  nerving  himself 
to  exercise  them  to  the  best  of  his  ability  j  ''  and  what  about 
me  ?  " 

"  Well !  Do  you  think  your  position  here  justifies  you  in 
—in " 

"  Do  you  mean  in  getting  married  if  I  want  to  ?  '* 

"  Certainly  not.  You  know  I  do  not  mean  that.  I  should 
be  pleased  to  see  you  happily  married,  very  pleased  indeed, 
and  hope  that  some  day  you  will  be,  to  a  suitable  partner  in 
life." 

"  And  you  don't  think  Mrs.  O'Keefe  would  be  suitable, 
supposing  I  wanted  to  marry  her." 

"  Do  you  think  she  would  yourself.?  Is  your  position  here 
good  enough  to  allow  you  to  offer  it  to  a  lady  of  Mrs.  O'Keefe's 
standing  ?  " 

"  If  it  isn't  good  enough  to  allow  me  to  marry  anybody  I 
want  to  marry,  Lady  Wrotham,  if  I  do  want  to  marry,  which 
I  don't,  I'll  throw  it  up  at  once.  Captain  Turner  did  tell  me 
the  other  day  that  a  man  couldn't  hold  the  position  I  do  without 
losing  his  independence.  I  told  him  it  was  nonsense,  but  he 
says  that  sort  of  thing  without  meaning  it ;  it's  his  way.  If 
you  think  the  same,  if  you  think  that  a  land  agent  can't  be  a 
gentleman " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Browne,  you  are  talking  absurdly.  Who  could 
say  such  a  thing  ?  " 

"  Well,  then,  is  it  that  /  can't  be  a  gentleman  ?  I've 
always  hoped  I  was.  I  don't  boast  about  my  family,  but 
it's  a  good  deal  better  than  most  people's,  although  my 
father  was  a  country  clergyman  and  a  good  way  off  the 
head  of  it.  And  as  for  money,  I've  got  enough  to  marry  on 
if  I  want  to." 

"  Are  you  one  of  the ?  " 

**  Yes,  I  am,  Lady  Wrotham.  You'll  find  me  in  the  books 
if  you  like  to  look  for  me.'* 


J 14  EXTON  MANOR 

"Well,  of  course  that  does  make  a  difference." 

"I  don't  see  that  it  makes  any  difference.  I'm  either  a 
gentleman  or  I'm  not  a  gentleman.  If  I  am  I  oughtn't  to  be 
treated  like  a  sort  of  upper  servant  and  told  to  keep  my  place 
and  who  I'm  to  make  friends  with  and  who  I'm  not  to  make 
friends  with.  If  that's  the  kind  of  land  agent  wanted  on  this 
property,  Lady  Wrotham,  I'll  send  in  my  resignation  to-mor- 
row." 

The  honest  gentleman  was  so  outraged  by  what  he  con- 
sidered an  impertinent  piece  of  interference  that  his  eloquence 
would  have  carried  him  still  farther  if  Lady  Wrotham  had  not 
raised  her  hand  and  stopped  him. 

"  You  quite  misunderstand  me,"  she  said,  although  he  had 
not  in  the  least  misunderstood  her,  and  if  the  unsuspected  fact 
of  his  descent  from  a  noble  family  had  not  been  made  plain  to 
her  she  would  have  treated  his  other  claims  with  scant  cere- 
mony. *'  And  if  you  really  have  in  your  mind  a  direct  proposal 
of  marriage " 

"  I  don't  say  whether  I  have  or  whether  I  haven't.  Lady 
Wrotham,"  said  Browne,  **  but  if  I'm  to  submit  any  private 
intentions  of  that  sort  to  you  before  taking  any  steps,  as  I'm 
to  submit  the  tenants  on  the  Manor,  as  I  say,  I'll  send  in  my 
resignation  at  once  and  go  somewhere  where  such  things  as 
that  aren't  expected  of  an  agent  by  his  employers." 

"  I  hope  you  won't  say  any  more  about  that,  Mr.  Browne. 
Lord  Wrotham  would  be  very  sorry  to  lose  you,  and  I  needn't 
say  that  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  lose  you  too.  You  need  not 
fear  that  as  long  as  you  remain  here  you  will  be  treated  in  every 
way  as  you  ought  to  be  treated." 

"  I'm  sorry  to  say  that  I  don't  think  I  have  been.  Lady 
Wrotham,"  said  Browne,  rising.  "  If  there  is  nothing  more 
in  the  way  of  business  that  you  want  to  speak  to  me  about,  if 
you'll  excuse  me,  I'll  get  back  to  my  work.  Monday's  a  busy 
morning." 


BROWNE  IS  PRECIPITATE  315 

Lady  Wrotham  did  not  detain  him.  "  I  really  think,"  she 
said  to  herself  when  he  had  left,  "  that  I  have  come  amongst 
the  most  cantankerous  and  opinionated  set  of  people  it  would 
be  possible  to  find  anywhere.  One  cannot  say  the  least  little 
thing  to  any  one  of  them  without  their  flying  in  one's  face. 
At  the  same  time,  Mr.  Browne,  in  spite  of  his  birth,  which  is 
news  to  me  and  I  should  not  have  expected,  is  not  a  suitable 
match  for  a  young  woman  in  Mrs.  O'Keefe's  position,  and  I 
hope  she  will  not  be  so  foolish  as  to  accept  him.  By  the  bye, 
I  wonder " 

She  took  down  from  a  shelf  the  ponderous  red  and  gold 
bound  volume  in  which  are  set  forth  the  pedigrees  of  those 
who  can  lay  claim  to  blue  blood,  even  to  the  last  pale  infu- 
sion, so  be  it  that  it  is  inherited  in  the  male  line,  and  looked 
up  the  records  of  a  certain  Marquisate.  Yes,  there  it  was, 
Maximilian  Philip,  son  of  the  Reverend  Philip  Maximilian, 
son  of  Colonel  Orlando  Maximilian,  C.  B.,  son  of  the  Very 
Reverend  the  Dean  of  Ballymalone,  son  of  the  Honourable 
Maximilian  Philip  Orlando,  brother  of  the  First  Marquess, 
and  in  remainder  to  the  Earldom  and  sundry  ancient  Baronies ; 
a  long  way  off  the  fountain  head,  it  was  true,  and  unlikely  ever 
to  wade  through  the  ocean  of  Maximilians  and  Philips  and 
Orlandos  that  lay  between,  but  filling  its  little  niche  of  distinc- 
tion all  the  same.  Lady  Wrotham  shut  the  book  and  put  it 
back  on  its  shelf.  "  If  I  had  known,"  she  said,  "  that  M.  P. 
stood  for  Maximilian  Philip,  I  should  not  have  been  likely  to 
make  that  little  mistake,"  which  for  Lady  Wrotham  was  a 
serious  admission  of  error.  She  took  down  the  book  again  and 
looked  up  the  Earldom  of  Ballyshannon. 

"  Sons  of  the  Fifth  Earl.  Michael  John,  present  peer,  Pat- 
rick Ernest,  Captain  Grenadier  Guards,  married  Norah, 
daughter  of  John  O'Malley,  M.  D." 

"  H'm  ! " 

Honest  Browne,  as  much  put  out  by  what  had  occurred  as 


3i6  EXTON  MANOR 

his  equable  nature  permitted,  left  the  Abbey  and  marched 
straight  up  the  village  past  his  office,  where  both  people  and 
papers  were  awaiting  his  attention  and  knocked  at  the  door  of 
Street  House.  Mrs.  O'Keefe  was  writing  in  the  little  room 
ofF  the  hall,  and  he  was  shown  in  to  her. 

"  Mrs.  O'Keefe,"  he  said,  shaking  hands  with  her  earn- 
estly, "  I  have  come  to  ask  you  a  question.  I've  just  been 
infernally  insulted  by  Lady  Wrotham,  and — will  you  marry 
me  ? " 

He  ought  to  have  added  the  word  "  There  !  "  to  make  his 
question  completely  expressive  of  his  feelings,  but  perhaps 
they  were  plainly  evident  without  it. 

A  mischievous  light  shone  in  Norah's  eyes.  "  Let  us  sit 
down  first,"  she  said,  and  did  so  as  far  from  the  chair  to  which 
she  had  motioned  Browne  as  the  dimensions  of  the  room 
would  permit. 

"  I'm  in  dead  earnest,"  said  Browne.  "  I'm  not  as  young 
as  I  was,  but  very  few  of  us  are.  Anyhow,  I'm  not  much 
over  forty,  and  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  be  much  different  from 
what  I  am  now  for  another  twenty  years.  A  lot  of  fellows 
couldn't  say  the  same,  but  I  live  a  healthy  life.  I'm  very  easy 
to  get  on  with,  and  you  wouldn't  have  any  trouble  with  me  at 
all.  I'm  not  rich,  but  I've  got  a  decent  income  and  a  good 
house,  and  if  I  have  to  give  up  the  one  I've  got  now  I  should 
not  have  any  difficulty  in  finding  just  as  good  a  job  somewhere 
else,  and  perhaps  a  better  one.  Now  what  do  you  think 
of  it  ?  " 

"I  think  it  is  very  kind  of  you  to  offer  me  the  chance,  Mr 
Browne,"  replied  Norah.  "  But  aren't  you  very  comfortable 
as  you  are  now  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am.  But  I  don't  think  I  should  be  any  less  com- 
fortable if  I  got  married,  perhaps  more  so.  I  should  like  it. 
Upon  my  word  I  should,  and  I  hope  you'll  say  yes." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  can't  quite  do  that,  Mr.  Browne.     But  of 


BROWNE  IS  PRECIPITATE  317 

course  we  are  real  friends,  and  I  hope  always  shall  be,  and  if 
there  is  any  other  way  in  which  you  can  score  off  Lady  Wro- 
tham,  I'll  do  my  best  to  help  you.  I  suppose  she  told  you 
that  she  couldn't  hear  of  your — asking  me,  and  you  have  asked 
me  so  as  to  show  her  that  you  are  not  going  to  take  your 
orders  from  her." 

"Well,  it  wasn't  exactly  like  that.  And,  of  course,  I 
shouldn't  have  thought  of  asking  you  unless  I  really  wanted 
to.  But  I've  wanted  to  a  good  long  time,  only  I  haven't  quite 
seen  my  way.  Don't  you  think  you  could  manage  it,  Mrs. 
O'Keefe  ?  " 

"I'm  afraid  not,  Mr.  Browne.  But  tell  me  more  about 
Lady  Wrotham.     How  was  it  that  my  name  came  up  ?  " 

"  Well,  she  had  the  cheek  to  tackle  me  about  the  way  in 
which  I — and  others  she  mentioned,  but  I  needn't  go  into 
that — were  what  she  called  running  after  you." 

Norah's  manner  underwent  a  change.  *'  I  think  that  was 
quite  uncalled  for,"  she  said.  "  She  seems  to  be  a  very  inter- 
fering old  lady." 

"She  is.  There's  not  a  doubt  about  it.  I  stuck  up  for 
her  as  long  as  I  could,  but — she  is  interfering.  You're  quite 
right.  I'm  sure  if  I've  done  anything  in  the  way  of — of  what 
she  says,  that  I  ought  not  to  have  done,  I'm  very  sorry  for  it.'* 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Browne,  if  you  had  it  would  be  no  affair 
of  Lady  Wrotham's.  It  would  be  my  affair  and  mine  only. 
But  you  have  done  nothing  but  to  give  me  a  friendship  which 
I  value  highly,  and  hope  to  go  on  valuing.  For  I  should  be 
very  sorry  if  it  was  withdrawn  from  me  now." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  Mrs.  O'Keefe.  I 
can  assure  you  that  /shall  never  be  any  different,  even  if  we 
don't  get  any  farther.  But  don't  you  think  you  could  bring 
yourself  to  it,  Mrs.  O'Keefe  ?  " 

"  No,  I  think  not.  I  am  very  grateful  for  the  honour  you 
have  done  me  in  asking  me," 


3i8  EXTON  MANOR 

"  Oh,  don't  mention  that,  please.  It's  the  other  way 
about — at  least  it  would  be.  But,  of  course,  if  you  can't — I 
must  put  up  with  it.  Still,  you  don't  say  that  I'm  so  far  be- 
neath you  that  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself  for  thinking 
of  it." 

"  Good  gracious,  no.  Surely,  Lady  Wrotham  didn't  tell 
you  that  ?  " 

"As  good  as.  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Mrs.  O'Keefe,  if  I 
can't  do  my  work  here  without  putting  myself  in  the  position 
of  being  hauled  over  the  coals  by  her  about  things  that  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  work  I'm  paid  to  do  in  the  place,  I 
shall  go  and  do  the  same  work  somewhere  else  where  I'm  not 
interfered  with." 

"  I  think  you  would  be  quite  justified  in  doing  so.  But  I 
hope  you  won't.  Everybody  would  miss  you  here,  tremen- 
dously. You  know  that  I  should.  I  hope  you  told  Lady 
Wrotham  what  you  thought  of  her  interference  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  did.  And  I  came  straight  off  here  to — well,  to  try 
my  luck." 

"  I  am  not  sorry  that  you  did  so,  Mr.  Browne,  although  I 
am  sorry  that  I  can't  give  you  the  answer  you  want.  If  you 
do  want  it,  you  know,"  she  added  with  a  smile  at  him. 

"There's  no  doubt  about  that,"  said  Browne.  "  But  if  you 
say  no,  it  must  be  no.  Still,  you  won't  let  this  make  any  dif- 
ference, will  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  won't ;  not  the  smallest  difference." 

"Thank  you  very  much,  Mrs.  O'Keefe,  You've  taken  a 
great  load  off  my  mind.  I'm  afraid  I  must  be  getting  back  now. 
I've  a  lot  of  things  to  see  to  at  the  office.  Good-bye  !  We 
must  have  a  little  dinner  and  a  little  Bridge  again  soon.  It's 
jolly  to  have  you  back  here.  I  say  !  I  suppose  you  won't 
say  anything  about — you  know — what  I  asked  you  ?  " 

"Of course  I  won't.  Don't  you  know  me  better  than 
that?" 


BROWNE  IS  PRECIPITATE  319 

"  Well,  I  don't  really  mind  if  you  do.  I'm  not  ashamed  of 
it.  Good-bye,  for  the  present,  Mrs.  O'Keefe.  You've  taken 
a  great  weight  ofF  my  mind." 

Norah  watched  him  go  busily  past  her  window  on  his  way 
to  his  work.  "  Nice  old  thing  !  "  she  said,  laughing  to  her- 
self. "  I'm  glad  to  have  taken  a  weight  off  his  mind.  I  won- 
der what  sort  of  a  weight  I  should  have  put  on  to  it  if  I  had 
said  yes.  But  really  !  Yes,  I  shall  certainly  go  and  call  on 
Lady  )Vrotham." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

norah's  attempt 

NoRAH  O'Keefe,  looking  as  if  some  of  the  freshness  and 
beauty  of  the  fair  May  month  had  transferred  itself  bodily  to 
her,  and  was  sparkling  in  her  face  and  figure,  walked  down 
through  the  village  and  presented  herself  at  the  Abbey.  Lady 
Wrotham  had  come  in  from  her  afternoon  drive  and  was 
sitting  by  her  tea-table,  a  little  figure  of  old-fashioned  dignity 
and  homeliness  combined,  surrounded  by  the  pictures  and 
books  and  fine  furniture  of  the  big  room  in  which  she  lived 
most  of  her  life,  as  if  it  was  the  most  natural  of  environments 
for  her,  eating  her  tea-cake  with  as  much  enjoyment  as  could 
have  been  shown  by  her  housekeeper  and  the  invaluable 
Riddell  in  the  more  homely  regions  devoted  to  their  pursuits. 
There  was  something  in  her,  sitting  alone  in  her  black  dress 
and  thus  occupied,  that  touched  Norah  with  compassion  as 
she  entered  the  room,  and  the  great  little  lady,  rising  not 
without  difficulty  from  her  chair  to  greet  her,  was  also  affected 
by  the  'appearance  of  her  visitor,  so  graceful  and  pretty,  who 
brought  in  with  her  a  breath  from  the  storehouse  of  eternal 
youth,  which  revivifies  the  earth  and  renews  contentment  to 
those  who  have  lost  it. 

"  How  do  you  do  ? "  she  said.  "  I  am  very  pleased  to 
see  you,"  and  added,  "  my  dear,"  as  if  she  could  not  help 
herself. 

She  talked  of  Norah's  Irish  visit,  and  of  her  husband's  re- 
lations, some  of  whom  she  knew,  and  asked  her  by  and  by 
why  she  had  settled  herself  at  Exton. 

"  I  felt  as  if  I  must  get  as  far  away  from  everybody  as  pos- 
sible," said  Norah,  "  at  that  dreadful  time — three  years  ago 

320 


NORAH'S  ATTEMPT  321 

And  he  and  I  had  been  here,  on  our  honeymoon,  and  thought 
the  place  so  beautiful  and  quiet  and  peaceful." 

A  shadow  came  over  her  face,  and  it  was  repeated  in  Lady 
Wrotham's.  "  I  am  afraid  it  is  not  so  peaceful  as  it  looks," 
she  said.  "  The  waywardness  of  mankind  can  spoil  the  most 
beautiful  of  places." 

"  There  are  things  that  make  it  not  quite  perfect,"  said 
Norah.  "  But  I  have  been  happy  here — happier  than  I 
thought  I  could  ever  be  again.  I  have  found  the  best  of 
friends." 

Lady  Wrotham  looked  thoughtful.  "Your  chief  friend,  I 
suppose,  is  Mrs.  RedclifFe  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Mrs.  Redcliffe  and  her  daughter,"  Norah  replied  boldly. 
"  They  would  make  any  place — a  far  less  beautiful  place  than 
this — attractive  to  me." 

"  I  hear  good  accounts  of  Mrs.  RedclifFe  from  every 
quarter,"  said  Lady  Wrotham  slowly ;  "  except,  perhaps, 
one. 

"  I  know  the  quarter  from  which  the  other  opinion 
comes,"  said  Norah,  "and  I  hope  you  won't  mind  my  saying, 
that  I  think  it  is  a  great  pity  that  you  should  let  a  woman 
like  Mrs.  Prentice  influence  you  against  a  woman  like  Mrs. 
RedclifFe — especially  as  you  have  never  seen  Mrs.  RedclifFe." 

She  felt  a  little  frightened  at  her  boldness,  and  would 
probably  have  felt  more  frightened  still  if  she  had  known 
Lady  Wrotham  better.  But  Lady  Wrotham  did  not  stare  at 
her  in  surprised  ofFence  as  she  might  have  been  expected  to 
do,  but  said  quietly  — 

"  My  dear,  how  can  I  get  to  know  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  if  she 
won't  come  and  see  me  ?  " 

Norah  was  a  little  taken  aback.  She  had  hardly  expected 
this  mildness,  and  had  thought  of  Lady  Wrotham  as  being 
opposed  to  Mrs.  RedclifFe  in  the  same  way  as  Mrs.  Prentice 
was  opposed  to  her,  if  not  quite  so  noisily.     "  I  hardly  think 


322  EXTON  MANOR 

she  would  care  to  do  that,"  she  said  hesitatingly,  "  after  what 
has  happened." 

"  Well,  what  has  happened  ?  "  asked  Lady  Wrotham,  still 
speaking  with  mild  reasonableness.  "  At  least,  what  has  hap- 
pened to  set  her  against  me  personally  ?  I  mentioned,  I  think 
now  unfortunately,  what  I  quite  thought  everybody  who  knew 
her  was  aware  of.  I  may  have  had  some  slight  prejudice 
against  her  on  account  of  her  marriage,  for  I  certainly  don't 
approve  of  marriage  with  a  deceased  wife's  sister  on  general 
principle.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  I  should  not  necessarily 
refuse  to  know  a  lady  who  had  contracted  such  a  marriage 
without  hearing  all  the  circumstances  of  the  case,  or  seeing 
for  myself  what  kind  of  woman  she  was,  and  that  is  what  I 
have  never  had  an  opportunity  of  doing  in  this  case.  What 
am  I  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  think  there  is  one  thing  you  might  do.  Lady  Wro- 
tham," said  Norah,  again  taking  her  courage  in  both  hands, 
"  and  that  is  to  stop  Mrs.  Prentice  in  the  mischief  she  is  mak- 
ing. She  is  behaving  outrageously.  Mrs.  Redcliffe  has  alwayg 
treated  her  with  every  possible  kindness.  None  of  us  love  Mrs. 
Prentice  much,  here.  She  is  not  a  lovable  woman,  and  it  has 
often  been  difficult  to — to  be  nice  to  her;  she  is  so  interfering, 
and  so — well,  so  spiteful.  But  Mrs.  Redcliffe  has  never  let  us 
say  a  word  against  her,  or  against  anybody  for  that  matter,  and 
has  always  been  sweet  and  good  to  her.  She  is  a  wonderful 
woman — Mrs.  Redcliffe;  you  can't  help  loving  and  admiring 
her.  She  is  so  gentle,  and  strong,  and  good.  And  I  say  that 
it  is  a  horrible  thing  that  Mrs.  Prentice's  tongue  should  be 
loosed  against  her;  yes.  Lady  Wrotham,  and  I  think  that  it  is 
a  great  pity  that  you  should  make  a  friend  and  a  confidante  of 
Mrs.  Prentice,  and  give  her  your  support  in  the  mischief  she 
is  doing." 

She  had  worked  herself  into  a  state  between  tears  and  in« 
dignation.     All  the  wrongs  of  her  friends  rose  up  before  her 


NORAH'S  ATTEMPT  323 

as  she  spoke,  and  beside  them  was  the  picture  of  malice  and 
mischief  stalking  triumphant  and  unabashed  through  their 
lives.  She  would  not  have  minded  now  if  Lady  Wrotham 
had  risen  in  anger  against  the  outspokenness  of  her  attack, 
and  she  would  have  been  quite  prepared  to  carry  it  still  further. 
But  Lady  Wrotham  was  still  quiet  and  reasonable. 

"  It  is  not  in  the  least  my  wish  to  support  Mrs.  Prentice 
in  the  way  you  mention,"  she  said.  "I  am  annoyed  with 
her  for  putting  the  scandal  about,  and  if  what  I  constantly 
hear,  from  others  as  well  as  you,  is  true,  fomenting  it,  after 
I  expressly  told  her  that  I  did  not  wish  what  I  had  told  her  to 
go  any  farther." 

"  Did  you  tell  her  that  ? "  asked  Norah,  in  surprise. 

**  Yes,  I  distinctly  told  her  so,  after  I  learnt  that  it  was  not 
generally  known,  and  I  consider  that  she  has  disobeyed  me, 
although  she  says  that  Mrs.  RedclifFe  and — and  Miss  Red- 
clifFe — spoke  to  her  first,  before  she  had  repeated  it  to  a  soul." 

"  She  had  been  so  abominably  rude  to  them,"  said  Norah 
hotly,  "  that  they  could  hardly  help  asking  her  for  an  expla- 
nation of  her  behaviour.  And,  of  course,  that  is  what  she 
meant  them  to  do.  She  wouldn't  be  able  to  keep  a  thing  like 
that  to  herself.  It  is  not  in  her.  She  hates  Mrs.  RedclifFe, 
because  she  is  good,  and  she  is  only  too  pleased  to  have  this 
excuse  for  turning  on  her." 

"  That  is  a  very  harsh  thing  to  say,"  said  Lady  Wrotham. 
"  I  do  not  think  Mrs.  Prentice  is  a  bad  woman,  although 
I  am  afraid  she  is  rather  a  tiresome  one.  She  has  been  of 
considerable  use  to  me  in — in  rather  difficult  matters  in  con- 
nection with  religion  since  I  have  been  here,  and  I  think  she 
has  undergone  a  genuine  change  of  heart." 

"  Oh,  Lady  Wrotham,  how  can  you  think  that  ? "  ex- 
claimed Norah.  "  Can't  you  see  that  she  is  ready  to  do  every- 
thing she  can  to  please  you,  simply  because  of  the  position  you 
hold  here — and  in  the  world  ?     If  you  were  not  what — who 


'^24  EXTON  MANOR 

you  are,  she  would  have  opposed  you  bitterly  in  all  these 
things,  as  she  opposed  dear  old  Sir  Joseph  Chapman,  before  I 
came  here." 

"  I  don't  like  to  hear  you  say  that,"  said  Lady  Wrotham. 
"  And  I  never  heard  that  there  was  any  unpleasantness  with 
Sir  Joseph  Chapman." 

"  Oh,  there  was.  Lady  Wrotham,  though  it  was  some  years 
ago.  Miss  Chapman,  before  she  died,  wanted  to  get  the 
people  to  come  to  some  religious  meetings  here,  and  Sir  Joseph 
was  quite  willing  and  would  have  helped  her,  but  Mrs.  Pren- 
tice made  herself  so  unpleasant  about  it — she  said  it  would  do 
a  great  deal  of  harm  in  the  place — that  she  managed  to  stop 
it.  Sir  Joseph  gave  in  to  her  for  the  sake  of  peace.  He 
couldn't  bear  anything  like  strife  in  the  place." 

"  Did  not  Mr.  Prentice  do  what  he  could  to  stop  these 
meetings  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  suppose  he  would  have  cared  for 
them,  but  I  have  never  heard  him  mentioned  in  connection 
with  them.     It  was  Mrs.  Prentice  who  bestirred  herself." 

*'  Well,  of  course  it  was  wrong  of  her — if  they  were  to  be 
simple  Evangelical  gatherings.  But  she  has  acted  in  a  very 
different  way  with  my  efforts  in  that  direction." 

"  Because  you  are  Lady  Wrotham,  and  she  would  tremble 
at  the  idea  of  opposing  you  in  anything,  and  Sir  Joseph  was 
so  mild  and  unpretentious  that " 

"  You  mean,  I  suppose,  that  she  is  what  is  usually  called  a 
snob  ? " 

"Yes,  I  do  mean  that.  Why,  when  I  first  came  here, 
although  I  am  nobody  particular  apart  from  my  husband's 
family — but  there  is  just  the  little  handle  to  my  name — she 
showed  it  quite  plainly.  She  did  her  best  to  keep  me  from 
making  friends  with  the  Redcliffes,  and  I  had  quite  a  wrong 
impression  of  them — taken  from  her — until  I  did  get  to  know 
them." 


NORAH'S  ATTEMPT  325 

"  That  is  reprehensible.  I  know  that  people  do  run  after 
titles.  I  dislike  that  sort  of  thing  very  much.  I  had  not 
observed  it  in  Mrs.  Prentice,  but  you  say  you  have.  She  did 
it  to  you,  and  in  such  a  way  that  you  could  not  help  noticing 
it.     Your  powers  of  observation  are  stronger  than  mine." 

"  No ;  but,  you  see,  Lady  Wrotham,  perhaps  I  don't  bear 
my  little  honour  so  naturally  as  any  one  would  who  was  born 
with  it." 

"  I  think  you  bear  it  very  well,  my  dear." 

"  And  I  can't  help  noticing  the  difference  in  the  way  some 
people — people  like  Mrs.  Prentice — treat  me  now  from  the 
way  they  treated  me  before.  At  any  rate,  I  have  not  the 
slightest  doubt  that  she  is  an  arrant  snob,  and  that  that  is 
the  reason  why  you  find  her  so  meek  and  obedient,  when  none 
of  us  who  have  known  her  well  find  her  anything  like  that," 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  right,  though  perhaps  I  have  flattered 
myself  that  I  convinced  her  of  her  errors  through  other  means. 
However,  I  do  think  that  you  are  right  in  one  thing.  I 
cannot  disguise  from  myself  that  every  one  but  Mrs.  Prentice 
speaks  well  of  Mrs.  Redcliffe,  and  seems  even  prepared  to 
quarrel  ferociously  with  me,  who  am  innocent  of  offence  in 
the  matter,  on  her  behalf.  I  have  been  annoyed  with  her  all 
along  about  the  trouble  she  has  caused  over  that,  and  now 
that  it  has  been  made  clearer  still  to  me,  I  shall  lose  no  time 
in  telling  her  so." 

The  opportunity  of  doing  so  occurred  sooner  than  Lady 
Wrotham  had  anticipated,  for  the  door  opened  at  that  moment 
and  Mrs.  Prentice  was  announced. 

She  came  forward  with  the  air  of  a  welcome  habitue^  but, 
on  seeing  Norah,  hesitated  in  her  advance,  and  acquired  a 
pinched  expression  about  the  mouth.  She  shook  hands  with 
Lady  Wrotham,  who  did  not  rise  from  her  seat  to  do  so,  nor 
infuse  any  warmth  into  the  action.  Then  she  turned  to 
Norah,  and  said  with  a  smile  that  was  both  sweet  and  sour, 


326  EXTON  MANOR 

»*  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  O'Keefe  ?  I  came  to  welcome  you 
home  on  Saturday,  but,  no  doubt  through  some  misunderstand- 
ing of  your  servant's,  I  was  not  able  to  do  so." 

"  There  was  no  misunderstanding,  Mrs.  Prentice,"  said 
Norah  in  a  clear  voice,  and  withholding  her  hand ;  "  I  told 
all  my  servants  to  say  I  was  not  at  home  to  you." 

The  sweetness  of  Mrs.  Prentice's  smile  departed,  and  an 
additional  infusion  of  acidity  took  its  place.  "  Oh,  indeed," 
she  said;  "I  am  sorry  you  should  have  done  that,  because  it 
was  a  rude  thing  to  do,  and  you  need  not  fear  that  I  should 
go  where  I  am  not  wanted.  But  there  is  no  need  to  trouble 
Lady  Wrotham  with  our  little  disputes.  We  can  settle  them 
amongst  ourselves."  She  turned  towards  Lady  Wrotham  with 
an  air  of  being  about  to  turn  the  conversation,  and  of  leaving 
Norah  out  of  it  as  a  troublesome  child  who  has  misbehaved 
and  had  better  be  left  to  itself  to  come  to  its  senses.  But 
Norah  spoke  again. 

"There  is  no  dispute  between  us,  Mrs.  Prentice,  and  I 
have  just  been  talking  over  these  things  with  Lady  Wrotham. 
Mrs.  RedclifFe  is  a  dear  friend  of  mine,  and  I  simply  refuse 
to  have  in  my  house,  or  to  have  anything  to  do  with,  any  one 
who  has  behaved  to  her  as  you  have." 

"  Oh,  but  this  is  outrageous,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice.  "  Lady 
Wrotham  knows  very  well  how  this  unfortunate  affair  about 
Mrs.  RedclifFe  has  arisen,  and  that  I  had  nothing  whatever  to 
do  with  It."  . 

"  I  do  not  know  that,  Mrs.  Prentice,"  struck  in  Lady 
Wrotham.  "  I  do  not  know  that.  There  has  been  a  great 
deal  of  unnecessary  talk  and  scandal  about  Mrs.  RedclifFe, 
and  I  have  been  very  annoyed  about  it.  If  it  had  not  been 
for  you  I  am  quite  sure  it  would  not  have  happened." 

Mrs.  Prentice  grew  turkey-red.  There  was  much  dis- 
pleasure in  the  great  lady's  tone,  and,  however  much  she 
might  have  been  prepared  to  make  little  of  it  and  seek  to 


NORAH'S  ATTEMPT  j«7 

remove  it  by  such  wiles  as  she  could  use  if  she  had  been  alone 
with  her,  it  annoyed  her  excessively  to  be  spoken  to  in  this 
way  before  a  third  party. 

"  I  really  think,  Lady  Wrotham,"  she  said,  "  that  you  are 
doing  me  a  great  injustice.  I  told  you  distinctly,  if  you  re- 
member, that  I  did  not  put  about  the  news  of  Mrs.  Redcliffe's 
marriage." 

"  That  is  just  a  quibble,"  began  Norah,  but  Lady  Wrotham 
again  struck  in. 

"  Let  me  speak  clearly,"  she  said,  "  once  and  for  all.  Mrs. 
Prentice,  I  will  say  no  more  of  how  the  news  that  I  told  only 
to  you  got  about.  But  I  know  from  my  own  observation 
since  it  did  get  about  that  you  have  done  your  best  to  make 
the  worst  of  it.  I  have  been  seriously  displeased  at  it,  ano 
have  meant  to  say  so,  but  did  not,  because  I  hoped  that  you 
would  come  to  see  in  what  an  un-Christian  manner  you  were 
behaving.  I  do  so  now.  It  ill  becomes  one  who  professes 
the  change  of  heart  that  you  have  recently  undergone  to  act  in 
that  way  >  and  if  it  goes  on  I  shall  begin  to  think  that  there 
has  been  no  change  at  all,  and  that  you  are  still  in  a  state  of 
darkness." 

This  was  too  much.  To  be  talked  to  like  a  naughty  school- 
girl before  Mrs.  O'Keefe,  whom  she  had  designed  to  present 
to  her  patroness,  as  one  who  was  in  a  position  to  be  able  to  do 
that  little  service  for  her  by  reason  of  the  close  intimacy  that 
existed  between  her  and  Lady  Wrotham — this  was  bad  enough. 
But  to  be  held  up  before  her  as  an  example  of  a  repentant 
Low  Church  sinner,  whose  repentance  was  looked  upon  with 
grave  suspicion,  was  more  than  she  could  bear.  The  cords  of 
her  allegiance  snapped  under  the  strain,  and  she  threw  com- 
placency to  the  winds.  "  Pooh  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  have 
never  professed  any  change  of  heart  at  all,  not  of  that  sort.  I 
don't  believe  in  it,  and  I  certainly  don't  require  it.  You  have 
made  a  mistake,  Lady  Wrotham.     I  think  your  ideas  on  re- 


328  EXTON  MANOR 

ligious  matters  are  entirely  wrong,  and  I  have  only  given  in  to 
them  as  much  as  I  have  to  try  and  keep  the  peace,  which  you 
have  done  your  best  to  disturb  since  you  have  been  here.  I 
shall  do  so  no  longer.  What  do  I  get  by  it  ?  Simply  insults 
and  injustice." 

Lady  Wrotham  stared  at  her  with  ever  deepening  displeas- 
ure. *'  Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying  ?  "  she  asked  when 
Mrs.  Prentice  had  come  to  the  end  of  her  diatribe. 

Mrs.  Prentice  was  in  for  it  now.  She  had  burnt  her  boats 
in  a  fit  of  pique,  and  although,  confronted  with  Lady  Wro- 
tham's  stern  face  and  forbidding  air,  she  had  a  moment's  in- 
clination to  knuckle  under  and  retreat,  the  presence  of  Norah 
O'Keefe  swept  away  that  momentary  impulse.  She  rose  from 
the  chair  in  which  she  had  seated  herself.  "  Yes,  I  know  very 
well,"  she  said.  "  I  have  been  too  patient,  too  conciliatory. 
You  will  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  me.  Very  well,  I 
can't  help  it.  I  have  done  all  I  can  to  meet  your  views,  but 
my  conscience  now  bids  me  stop  and  take  a  firm  line.  I 
walk  out  of  this  house,  and  I  don't  wish  ever  to  enter  it  again 
as  long  as  you  are  here.  Lady  Wrotham." 

"  I  think  you  had  better  do  so,"  said  Lady  Wrotham,  "  be- 
fore you  forget  yourself  further." 

So  Mrs.  Prentice  walked  out,  in  a  towering  rage  which 
turned  to  trembling  as  soon  as  she  had  crossed  the  threshold. 
But  this  time  no  port,  no  biscuits  could  revive  her.  She  went 
home  and  threw  herself  on  her  bed  to  think  over  what  she  had 
done,  the  unhappiest  woman  in  Exton. 

Lady  Wrotham,  left  alone  with  Norah  O'Keefe,  turned  her 
head  away  from  the  door  through  which  Mrs.  Prentice  had 
disappeared,  and  said,  "  Well,  I  have  had  a  lesson.  I  have  no 
doubt  now  that  you  are  right,  and  that  Mrs.  Prentice  has 
merely  pretended  to  agree  with  me  on  matters  that  I  have  at 
heart,  with  a  view  to  insinuating  herself  into  my  favour.  I 
am  glad  I  have  found  her  out.     I  am  shocked  at  her  vulgarity 


NORAH'S  ATTEMPT  329 

and  hypocrisy.  We  need  not  trouble  ourselves  with  her  any 
longer,  and,  Mrs.  O'Keefe,  now  that  I  find  I  have  been  mis- 
taken in  her,  I  must  do  my  best  to  put  right  what  has  been 
wrong  with  regard  to  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  through  my  agency,  I 
fear,  in  the  first  place,  although  not  with  my  intention.  And 
you  must  help  me.  You  must  either  bring  Mrs.  RedclifFe 
here  to  see  me,  or  I  will  go  and  see  her,  I  do  not  mind  which  it 
is.  But  if  I  go  to  see  her  she  must  be  prepared  for  my  visit, 
I  should  not  care  to  go  and  to  be  refused  admittance." 

**  I  do  not  think  that  would  happen.  Lady  Wrotham." 

"  It  would  not,  of  course,  if  she  was  prepared  for  my  visit. 
And  perhaps  you  had  better  prepare  her.  It  would  perhaps  be 
more  of  a  compliment  if  I  waived  ceremony  and  went  to  see 
her.  I  should  not  like  to  appear  to  be  in  the  position  of  send- 
ing for  her.  You  can  see  her  between  now  and  to-morrow 
afternoon,  I  suppose,  and  can  let  me  know  how  my  visit 
would  be  received.  You  must  let  her  know  that  I  should 
come  as  a  friend,  and  should  like  to  have  her  as  a  friend,  if  she 
will  overlook  the  little  mistake  which  has  caused  such  trouble. 
You  can  explain  to  her  that  the  trouble  has  been  none  of  my 
doing." 

This  was  very  handsome,  and  Norah  felt  it  was  meant  to  be 
so.  "  I  will  do  what  I  can,"  she  said,  "  and  I  am  sure  they 
will  be  glad." 

A  shade  came  over  Lady  Wrotham's  face.  "  I  had  forgot- 
ten the  girl  for  the  moment,"  she  said.  "  Of  course,  she  did 
send  a  very  impertinent  message  to  me." 

"She  may  have  said  something  to  Mrs.  Prentice  in  her 
anger,"  said  Norah.  "  I  don't  know  what  it  was,  but  I  am 
quite  sure  that  whatever  she  did  say  Mrs.  Prentice  made  the 
most  of." 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  right.  Well,  I  will  overlook  that,  and 
^ink  no  more  about  it.  You  had  better  come  and  tell  mft 
what  has  passed   at  twelve  o'clock  to-morrow,  and  I  will  go 


330  EXTON  MANOR 

and  see  Mrs.  RedclifFe  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
And  now,  my  dear,  let  me  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to  have  you 
here.  I  am  rather  cut  off  from  my  old  friends,  and  have  not, 
so  far,  cared  to  invite  people  to  stay  with  me  here.  I  shall  do 
so  by  and  by,  when  I  have  a  little  recovered  from  my  loss, 
which  still  affects  me,  although  I  try  to  show  it  as  little  as 
possible,  and  I  shall  hope  to  have  some  young  people  in  the 
house,  from  time  to  time.  But  you  must  come  and  cheer  me 
up.     I  shall  always  be  glad  to  see  you." 

Norah  made  suitable  acknowledgments  and  took  her  leave. 
"  She  really  isn't  half  a  bad  old  thing,"  she  said  to  herself  as 
she  walked  away,  *'  and  she  seems  to  have  taken  a  fancy  to 
me.  Nothing  was  said  about  my  'goings  on,'  and  nothing 
probably  will  be  said  now.  Well,  if  she  succeeds  in  putting 
things  right  with  Mrs.  Redcliffe — and  I  must  do  my  best  to 
bring  that  about — I  will  be  friends  with  her.     But  not  unless." 

Norah  went  to  see  Mrs.  Redcliffe  the  next  morning  and 
explained  the  situation  to  her.  "  I  have  no  objection  to  see- 
ing Lady  Wrotham,"  Mrs.  Redcliffe  said.  *'  I  do  not  know 
that  she  can  be  blamed  for  her  part  in  the  trouble,  and  if  she 

is  no  longer  under  the  influence  of  Mrs.  Prentice But 

I  don't  know  what  Hilda  will  say,  Norah.  She  is  far  more 
upset  about  it  than  I  am,  you  know.  Dear  girl,  it  is  all  out 
of  pure  loyalty  to  me." 

"Where  is  Hilda?"  asked  Norah.  "Can't  we  talk  to 
her  ? " 

"  I  think  you  had  better  do  so.  She  is  painting  in  the 
church.  Tell  her  that  Lady  Wrotham  is  coming  to  see  us  this 
afternoon,  and  that  I  hope  she  will  lay  aside  her  dislike  and 
help  me  to  come  to  an  understanding  with  her." 

So  Norah  went  down  to  the  church,  and  found  Hilda  Red- 
cliffe in  one  of  the  pews,  in  the  early  stages  of  a  painting  of 
the  pulpit,  which  was  an  object  of  which  the  inhabitants  of 
Exton  were  justly  proud. 


NORAH'S  ATTEMPT  331 

She  found  her  unexpectedly  obdurate.  She  grew  indignant 
and  distressed  the  moment  the  object  of  Norah's  address  to  her 
was  mentioned.  "  How  can  mother  think  of  it  ? "  she  exclaimed. 
"  And  how  can  you  advise  her  to  do  it,  Norah  ?  I  dare  say  it 
is  true  that  Lady  Wrotham  is  not  so  bad  as  Mrs.  Prertice,  but 
she  has  listened  to  Mrs.  Prentice,  she  has  not  lifted  a  hjger  to 
stop  all  the  scandal  she  has  put  about,  and  she  has  made  a 
bosom  friend  of  Mrs.  Prentice,  all  the  time  she  has  been  doing 
everything  she  could  to  do  harm  to  mother.  I  think  she  has 
behaved  disgracefully." 

"  But,  surely,  Hilda  dear,  now  that  she  has  broken  with  Mrs. 
Prentice,  and  on  account  of  this  very  thing,  and  wants  to  see 
Mrs.  RedclifFe — and  you — to  say  how  sorry  she  is  about  it  all, 
and  for  her  share  in  it " 

"  How  do  you  know  she  wants  to  say  that  ?  Supposing  she 
just  comes  into  the  house — practically  at  our  invitation — and 
tries  to  lord  it  over  mother,  as  seems  to  be  her  nature,  from 
everything  we  know  about  her Of  course,  it  is  awk- 
ward for  her  having  us  here,  who  don't  want  to  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  her.  It  hurts  her  dignity,  and  she  would 
like  to  put  herself  in  the  right.  No,  Norah,  I  don't  like  Lady 
Wrotham,  and  the  less  mother  and  I  have  to  do  with  her  the 
better." 

Whether  Norah  would  have  been  able  to  make  any  im- 
pression on  this  attitude,  and  peace  and  goodwill  would  have 
been  brought  about  by  her  efforts,  cannot  be  known.  It  is 
probable  that  they  would.  But  it  was  not  to  be.  Hilda  was 
sitting  in  the  corner  of  one  pew,  and  Norah  standing  behind 
her  in  another,  both  of  them  with  their  backs  to  the  door. 
When  Hilda  had  given  vent  to  her  feelings  in  a  clear 
voice,  both  of  them  were  startled  by  another  voice  behind 
them. 

"  Then  there  will  not  be  the  slightest  difficulty  about  your 
having  your  way.** 


332 


EXTON  MANOR 


What  unfortunate  chance  had  brought  Lady  Wrotham  to 
that  (by  her)  little-frequented  spot  at  that  moment  ?  Exer- 
cised with  the  details  of  her  campaign  against  the  Vicar,  she 
had  chosen  a  time  when  she  thought  few  people  would  be 
likely  to  oe  about  the  church,  to  walk  into  it  and  refresh  her 
memory  about  certain  details  of  altar  furniture  and  the  like, 
and  ftad  entered  unheard  just  in  time  to  hear  herself  de- 
nounced in  the  words  above  recounted. 

Hilda  turned  round  and  faced  her  scornfully.  Norah 
looked  deeply  distressed,  but  was  too  much  at  a  loss  for 
words. 

"  Of  course  you  are  Miss  Redcliffe,"  said  the  great  lady, 
steadying  herself  with  her  stick,  and  holding  herself  in  an 
upright  and  stately  manner  in  spite  of  her  lameness  and  her 
lack  of  inches.  "  I  should  have  overlooked  your  previous 
rudeness,  as  I  wished  to  do  all  that-  lay  in  my  power  to  put  an 
end  to  this  disagreeable  business.  But  I  cannot  overlook  this. 
I  had  supposed  that  what  was  repeated  to  me  was  exaggerated. 
I  now  see  that  it  was  not  so.  You  are  a  very  rude  and  imper- 
tinent girl." 

Hilda  flushed,  and  would  have  retorted  hotly,  but  Norah 
stopped  her.  "  Don't  say  anything,  Hilda,"  she  pleaded  j 
"you  will  only  be  sorry  for  it  afterwards.  Lady  Wrotham, 
I  am  very  sorry  you  came  in  just  then.  We  were  only  just 
beginning  to  talk  it  over,  and " 

"  I  am  very  glad  I  did  come  in,"  said  Lady  Wrotham  un- 
compromisingly. "  I  now  see  that  any  efforts  I  could  make 
towards  a  better  understanding  would  be  useless,  and  I  shall 
not  attempt  to  make  them.  I  will  leave  Miss  Redcliffe  to 
herself,  but  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  a  word  with  you,  Mrs. 
O'Keefe,  outside."  She  turned  and  limped  majestically 
through  the  door. 

Norah  hesitated,  but  Hilda  said,  "  Oh,  go  and  talk  to  her, 
and   make   friend?   for  yourself.     She  is  much  better  worth 


NORAH'S  ATTEMPT  333 

knowing  than  we  are.  Only  don't  apolc^'ize  for  me,  for  I 
meant  every  word  I  said,  and  would  say  them  again." 

'•'■  I  shall  go,  and  I  shall  come  back  again,"  Norah  said,  and 
left  her. 

Lady  Wrotham  was  walking  slowly  along  the  churchyard 
path.  She  turned  round  as  Norah  came  out  of  the  porch. 
*'  You  see,"  she  said  angrily,  "  it  is  no  use  going  any  farther. 
All  my  efforts  towards  conciliation  are  just  thrown  in  my  face. 
That  girl  is  impossible.  You  must  consider  my  intention  of 
yesterday  withdrawn.     I  shall  do  nothing  more." 

"  Oh,  but.  Lady  Wrotham,"  pleaded  Norah.  "  Mrs.  Red- 
clifFe  said  that  she  would  be  pleased  to  see  you,  and  I " 

"  I  can't  see  Mrs.  RedclifFe  without  seeing  her  daughter, 
and  that  I  will  not  do,  to  lay  myself  out  for  further  imperti- 
nence. I  have  done  with  the  RedclifFes.  I  am  sick  of  them. 
I  wish  to  hear  nothing  more  about  them.  They  must  take 
their  way,  and  I  will  take  mine.  Don't  mention  their  name 
to  me  again.  I  want  you  to  come  to  luncheon  with  me,  and 
to  go  for  a  long  drive  with  me  afterwards.  It  is  a  lovely  day, 
and  we  will  go  into  the  forest." 

"  Thank  you.  Lady  Wrotham,"  said  Norah, "  but  I'm  afraid 
I  can't  do  that." 

"  Oh,  you  have  an  engagement.     But " 

"  No,  I  have  no  engagement.  But  the  RedclifFes  are  my 
friends,  and  now  is  the  time  that  I  must  be  with  them,  and  not 
with  those  who  are  at  enmity  with  them." 

"  What !  You  think  that  girl  was  right  to  speak  of  me  in 
that  way  ?  " 

"  I  don't  say  so.  But,  right  or  wrong,  they  are  my  friends, 
and  I  love  them." 

"  Then  you  mean  that  you  refuse  to  be  a  friend  of  mine  ?  *' 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  be  a  friend  of  yours.  But  I  can't  as 
long  as  you  are  against  them." 

She  was  very  pretty,  standing  in  front  of  the  great  little  lady 


334  EXTON  MANOR 

with  a  flush  on  her  cheeks,  and  an  air  of  half-regretful  bold- 
ness, but  Lady  Wrotham  was  not  now  affected  by  her  pretti- 
ness.     She  turned  away  in  an  undisguised  rage. 

"Very  well,  then,"  she  said  over  her  shoulder  as  she 
stumped  off.  "  You  may  do  as  you  please,  and  I  don't  want 
to  see  you  any  more." 

And  so  ended  at  the  same  time  Norah's  attempt  at  media- 
tion and  her  short  alliance  with  Lady  Wrotham. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

ARRIVALS 

What  Mr.  Prentice  in  the  pulpit  might  have  called,  and 
probably  did  call,  the  glad  season  of  Whitsuntide,  not  only 
brought  the  pleasant  feeling  that  summer  had  definitely 
arrived,  if  not  by  the  almanac,  by  its  gift  of  flowers  and 
foliage,  genial  warmth  and  long  days,  but  to  the  Manor  of 
Exton  some  increase  of  population.  It  brought  Mr.  Dale  to 
the  Lodge,  very  hearty  and  pleased  with  himself  and  with 
everything  he  found  there,  and  with  him  came  Mrs.  Dale, 
pleased,  too,  at  the  change  in  her  surroundings,  but  pleased 
in  a  more  placid  manner;  and  Lotty  and  Mary  and  Ada 
and  Tom  and  Peter  and  Gladys  Dale,  likewise  pleased, 
quietly,  vociferously,  complacently  or  riotously,  according  to 
their  several  natures.  It  brought  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ferraby  to 
the  other  Lodge,  two  miles  away  in  the  forest,  and  with 
them  a  house  party  as  large  as  it  could  be  made  consistent 
with  the  comfort  demanded  by  the  smart  and  lively  people 
from  amongst  whom  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ferraby 's  friends  were 
chiefly  drawn.  It  brought  to  the  Abbey,  Lord  Wrotham, 
who  had  announced  his  intention  of  spending  a  week  there 
the  day  before  he  actually  arrived,  and  it  brought,  after  due 
notice  and  consideration  on  both  sides.  Lady  Syde,  the  widow 
of  the  late  Lord  Wrotham's  younger  brother.  General  Sir 
Franklin  Syde,  K.C.B. 

Lord  Wrotham  arrived  at  the  Abbey  early  in  the  afternoon 
while  his  mother  was  out  for  her  afternoon  drive.  Her 
absence,  however,  did  not  appear  to  cause  him  much  regret, 
and   he  had  not  been  in  the  house  more  than  five  minutes 


336  EXTON  MANOR 

when   he  was  out  of  it  again  and  making  his  way  across  the 
park  towards  the  White  House. 

Mrs.  RedcIifFe  and  Hilda  were  sitting  under  the  shade  of 
a  lime  tree  on  the  lawn  working  and  reading.  Hilda  looked 
up  as  the  little  wicket  gate  which  gave  entrance  from  the 
park  into  the  garden  shut  to,  and  saw  him  coming. 
"  Mother,"  she  said,  in  some  perturbation,  "  here  is  Lord 
Wrotham.     What  shall  we  do  ?  " 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  await  his  coming. 
"  Here  I  am,  you  see,"  he  said,  when  he  was  within  speak- 
ing distance.  "Just  come  down  and  having  a  look  round. 
How  are  you,  Mrs.  RedcIifFe  ?  How  are  you.  Miss  Red- 
cIifFe ?  Jolly  weather,  isn't  it !  And  how  has  the  world  been 
using  you  ? " 

It  might  have  been  rather  difHcult  to  give  him  an  answer 
to  that  question,  if  he  had  required  one.  But  apparently 
he  did  not,  for  he  went  on  without  pausing,  "  Ripping  garden 
you've  got  here.  Just  the  place  to  sit  in  on  sunny  after- 
noons and  enjoy  yourself." 

"  Hilda,  fetch  Lord  Wrotham  another  chair,"  said  Mrs. 
RedcIifFe. 

Hilda  got  up  to  do  so.  "  No,  don't  you  trouble.  I'll  fetch 
it,"  he  said. 

"You  don't  know  where  they  are,"  said  Hilda,  and 
walked  across  the  lawn  towards  the  house,  which  gave  him 
the  opportunity  of  accompanying  her. 

Hilda  broke  in  upon  some  pleasant  nothings  that  he  began 
to  say  to  her,  looking  at  him  with  clear  eyes.  "  I  ought  to 
tell  you,"  she  said,  "  that  we  are  not  friends  with  Lady 
Wrotham.  In  fact,  we  don't  know  her  and  are  not  likely 
to.  She  did  something  that  I  think  was  very  wrong  of  her, 
and  she  overheard  me  say  something  about  her  that  she  was 
angry  about." 

"Dear   me,   that's   a  bad  job,"  he  said.     "Still,  as  long 


ARRIVALS  337 

as  I  don't  overhear  you  saying  something  about  me  that  I 
should  be  angry  about — but  you  wouldn't  do  that,  would 
you  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes  with  an 
expression  that  made  her  laugh,  rather  against  her  will. 
"You  are  so  funny,"  she  said,  "that  I  can't  help  laughing 
at  whatever  you  say.  But  this  has  not  been  a  laughing 
matter  to  us,  and  I  don't  know  that  you  ought  to  come 
here,  considering  the  terms  we  are  on  with  Lady  Wrotham. 
Does  she  know  that  you  have  come  ?  " 

They  were  standing  by  the  door  of  a  shed  in  which  garden 
accessories  were  kept,  and  she  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  get 
one  of  the  chairs  that  were  in  it  and  return  to  the  lawn. 
Neither  was  he  in  a  hurry. 

"  Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  haven't  seen  her  yet,"  he 
said.  "  I've  only  just  got  down,  and  she's  out  driving.  But 
what  has  she  been  saying  to  upset  you  ?  Don't  you  go  to 
her  meetings  ?  " 

"  It  isn't  that.  She — she,  oh,  I  don't  know  how  to  tell 
you.  But  mother  said  she  thought  you  must  have  known — 
about — about  her  marriage." 

"  Oh,  lor,  yes,  I  know  all  about  it.  But  surely  she  hasn't 
been  making  a  fuss  about  that !  " 

*'  She  has,  and  she  told  it  to  a  horrible  woman,  the  wife  of 
the  Vicar,  who  actually  told  us  that  we  ought  to  be  driven 
out  of  the  place  because  of  it." 

"  Well,  upon  my  word,  that's  pretty  thick.  She'll  be 
driven  out  of  the  place  herself  if  she  isn't  careful.  Look 
here.  Miss  RedclifFe,  I'll  make  it  up  between  you  and  my 
mother.  She  likes  to  have  her  own  way  about  things,  and 
if  people  don't  knuckle  under  to  her,  she's  quite  capable  of 
making  it  unpleasant  for  them  ;  but  she's  not  as  bad  as  all 
that.  I  mean  that  she  wouldn't  lay  into  people  because  of 
— well,  what  you've  told  me." 


338  EXTON  MANOR 

"  I  don't  think  I  want  it  made  up,  thank  you.  I'm  bound 
to  say  that  mother  would  have  done  so.  She's  so  good,  and 
can't  bear  being  at  enmity  with  anybody.  And  Lady 
Wrotham  did  arrange  to  come  up  here  to  see  mother.  I 
don't  know  whether  she  would  have  put  it  all  straight  or  only 
just  made  it  a  little  less  awkward  for  herself  by  coming.  But 
she  heard  me  say  that  I  didn't  want  to  see  her.  I  said  it 
to  Mrs.  O'Keefe  in  the  church,  and  Lady  Wrotham  came  in 
and  heard  me.  She  was  very  angry,  and,  I  believe,  washed 
her  hands  of  us  from  that  moment." 

"  Well,  it's  a  great  pity,  and  the  loss  is  hers." 

"  I  ought  to  tell  you,"  Hilda  went  on,  "  that  mother  was 
not  pleased  about  what  had  happened.  She  thought  that 
Lady  Wrotham  had  only  meant  to  be  kind  in  suggesting  that 
she  should  come  here  and  see  mother.  But  I  don't  know. 
I  shouldn't  have  cared  to  risk  it.  I  will  stand  up  for  mother 
against  anybody,  even  where  she  won't  stand  up  for  herself. 
And  I  can't  pretend  to  be  altogether  sorry  that  it  happened 
as  it  did." 

"You're  quite  right,  Miss  Redcliffe.  Still,  we  must  try 
and  put  things  straight  somehow.  I  say,  let's  go  and  have 
a  look  at  those  flowering  shrubs  up  there.  I'm  a  whale  on 
flowering  shrubs.     We've  got  a  lot  of  them  at  Hurstbury." 

Hilda  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  consented  to  appease 
his  passion  for  flowering  shrubs.  They  went  up  the  hill  be- 
hind the  house  to  a  little  stretch  of  wild  garden,  but,  having 
arrived  there,  Lord  Wrotham  seemed  to  have  lost  some  of  his 
horticultural  fervour,  and  the  flowering  shrubs  attracted  less 
attention  from  him  than  Hilda  herself.  He  was  quite  in  his 
element,  and  made  rapid  headway  in  his  intimacy  with  her, 
and  in  such  a  manner  that  she  talked  and  laughed  with  him  as 
she  had  hardly  done  since  Lady  Wrotham  and  Mrs,  Prentice 
had  brought  strife  to  the  White  House  ;  recovered  some  of  her 
oatiir^lly  high  spirits,  and  was  as  near  to  falling  in  love  with 


ARRIVALS  339 

the  gaiety  and  happy  temper  of  her  companion  as  he  might 
have  wished,  if  his  attitude  to  her  was  to  be  taken  as  a  guide, 
that  she  should  fall  in  love  with  himself. 

Mrs.  RedclifFe,  still  at  her  needlework  under  the  lime  tree, 
looked  up  with  a  smile  of  pleasure  as  she  heard  Hilda's  clear 
laugh  on  their  way  back  across  the  lawn  to  join  her,  Lord 
Wrotham  carrying  an  extra  basket-chair  on  his  head.  She  had 
not  heard  her  laugh  like  that  for  a  long  time.  But  a  shade  of 
anxiety  was  on  her  face  too  as  she  looked  at  them,  caused  by 
something  in  her  secret  thoughts. 

Lord  Wrotham  stayed  to  tea  and  made  himself  unaffectedly 
and  delightfully  at  home.  And  he  stayed  for  half-an-hour 
after  tea  was  over.  When  at  last  he  did  find  it  incumbent  on 
him  to  take  his  departure,  he  suggested  that  the  ladies  should 
stroll  across  the  park  with  him  towards  the  Abbey.  This  in- 
vitation was  refused,  but  they  walked  with  him  to  the  little 
gate  in  the  fence  and  bade  him  farewell,  still  on  a  note  of 
laughter  and  friendliness. 

My  lord  walks  home  quickly,  brushing  off  the  yellow  dust 
of  the  buttercups  as  he  goes,  swinging  his  stick  in  a  blithe  and 
happy  mood.  Once  he  stops  under  the  evening  shade  of  a 
tall  elm  to  run  his  eye  over  a  group  of  farm  horses  gratefully 
cropping  the  cool  May  grasses  after  their  day's  work.  He 
gives  them  no  more  than  a  moment's  inspection,  but  walks  on 
again  swinging  his  stick  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground.  The 
grey  walls  of  the  old  Abbey  front  him,  the  most  beautiful  of 
the  three  fine  houses  he  calls  his  own,  set  like  a  jewel  in  the 
midst  of  woods  and  fields,  red  roofs  and  shining  water,  and  his 
lordship's  pleasant  young  face  is  thoughtful.  He  turns  back 
to  take  a  look  at  the  pretty,  spacious  cottage  he  has  left.  One 
side  of  it  can  be  seen  through  the  trees,  its  windows  shining  in 
the  light  of  the  westering  sun,  as  if  they  were  eyes,  contem- 
plating calmly,  but  unemulously,  across  the  stretch  of  grass 
land  its  more  stately  neighbour.     What  if  he  should  bridge  the 


340  £XTON  MANOR 

distance  between  the  two  by ?     He  hardly  formulates  the 

idea,  but  his  eager  mind  allows  it  entrance  amongst  all  the 
other  thronging  interests  and  excitements  that  occupy  him. 
It  may  come  to  be  thought  over.  For  the  present,  seize  the 
day  and  rely  as  little  as  may  be  on  the  morrow. 

The  Dale  family  has  taken  possession  of  their  new  house 
and  all  is  bustle  and  business  and  pleasurable  anticipation  at 
the  Lodge.  Mr.  Dale  with  his  coat  ofF  and  a  large  cigar, 
decked  with  a  waistcoat  of  red  and  gold  stamped  paper,  in  his 
mouth,  his  own  capacious  fancy  waistcoat,  bound  across  by  a 
heavy  chain,  hardly  less  resplendent,  is  directing  the  hanging 
of  his  collection  of  real  oil  paintings,  bought,  as  he  will  tell 
you,  to  please  himself  and  not  the  critics,  which  assuredly  they 
would  not  have  done.  Some  are  to  go  in  the  hall  and  some 
in  the  dining-room.  The  water-colours  for  the  drawing-room 
and  the  engravings  for  the  library  and  breakfast-room  will 
come  next,  but  the  real  oil  paintings  now  possess  all  his  mind, 
and  he  is  giving  loud,  minute,  frequently  contradictory,  but 
always  good-tempered  instructions  to  the  two  men  in  green 
baize  aprons  who  are  there  to  carry  them  out.  He  is  not 
above  lending  a  hand  himself  where  he  thinks  it  is  wanted, 
and  occasionally  mounts  the  first  few  steps  of  the  step-ladder 
with  extreme  caution  to  do  so,  but  does  not  trust  himself  on 
the  higher  altitudes.  He  is  quite  happy  and  would  not  have 
had  the  appalling  confusion  around  him  reduced,  without  his 
taking  part  in  its  reduction,  for  anything. 

Mrs.  Dale  is  engaged  in  bringing  order  out  of  chaos  in  the 
linen  and  china  closets,  going  about  her  work  with  a  placidity 
that  only  disguises  the  thoroughness  and  capability  which  she 
is  bringing  to  bear  on  her  task.  She  is  assisted  by  two  cheer- 
ful, broad-faced  North  country  maids  and  by  Ada,  her  second 
daughter,  who  is  domestically  inclined.  Lotty,  the  eldest,  is 
also  domestically  inclined,  but  her  domesticity  is  at  present 


ARRIVALS  341 

submerged  in  a  haze  of  love-sickness,  and  she  has  retired  to 
her  room  to  snatch  a  few  undisturbed  moments  for  the  perusal 
of  a  letter  which  she  already  knows  by  heart.  She  is  not  so 
pleasurably  excited  at  the  family's  move  to  Exton  as  the  rest 
of  them,  was  indeed  rather  averse  to  it,  as  removing  her  from 
the  object  of  her  affections,  but  looks  forward  to  leaving  it 
again  in  a  few  months'  time,  and  thinks  that  after  all  a  real 
country  wedding  will  be  preferable  to  being  married  from  a 
suburb  of  Manchester. 

Mary,  the  third  daughter,  is  putting  her  own  room  into 
order,  leaving  off  every  now  and  then  to  look  out  of  the  win- 
dow at  the  woods  and  the  river.  She  is  artistically  inclined, 
and  thinks  there  ought  to  be  plenty  of  "  bits  to  sketch." 

Tom,  with  a  briar  pipe  in  his  mouth,  in  knickerbockers,  as 
is  only  fitting  in  the  country,  and  brown  boots  with  boxcloth 
spats,  strolls  down  to  have  a  look  at  the  river,  which  he  in- 
spects with  a  knowing  air,  and  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  you 
couldn't  get  a  bit  Oi  sport  there  with  a  fly,  as  if  the  mysteries 
of  fly-fishing  were  a.:  open  book  to  him,  which  they  are  not, 
the  only  kind  of  book  which  he  thoroughly  understands  being 
that  with  which  he  is  rapidly  forming  a  useful  acquaintance  in 
his  father's  ofiice.  He  will  go  back  to  Manchester  in  a  day 
or  two  and  work  like  the  capable  young  business  man  he  is, 
but  in  the  meantime  he  is  a  country  gentleman's  son  and  must 
play  the  part,  or  as  near  as  he  can  get  to  it.  His  remarks  are 
received  with  reverence,  as  of  an  oracle,  by  his  younger  brother 
Peter,  who  shadows  him  everywhere,  and  by  Gladys,  Peter's 
twin,  who  shadows  Peter. 

In  the  midst  of  the  picture-hanging  Browne  walks  in,  and 
is  received  with  vociferous  warmth.  Mr.  Dale,  not  sorry  for 
the  short  respite  from  his  labours,  suggests  liquid  refreshment, 
which  Browne  accepts.  Mr.  Dale  lifts  his  glass  before  drink- 
ing from  it,  and  says,  "  Well,  here's  luck,  Mr.— -er.  I  hope 
we  shall  sec  you  here  very  often.     It'll  be  Liberty  Hall,  and 


342  EXTON  MANOR 

you'll  ask  for  what  you  like  and  have  what  you  like."  Browne 
makes  suitable  acknowledgments.  He  is  in  a  state  of  heat, 
and  is  anxious  to  discover,  if  he  can  do  so  without  putting  a 
direct  question,  whether  his  suspicions  as  to  Mr.  Dale's  being 
a  Radical  and  a  Dissenter  are  well  founded. 

He  finds  that  they  are.  Mr.  Dale  is  not  ashamed  of  his 
religion  or  of  his  political  principles ;  it  does  not  occur  to  him 
that  he  has  anything  to  be  ashamed  of,  and  he  makes  no  at- 
tempt to  soften  them  for  the  benefit  of  Browne,  not  perceiv- 
ing the  advisability  of  doing  so.  "  We  shall  go  to  church,  as 
a  rule,"  he  says, ''  because  there  doesn't  seem  to  be  a  Cause 
here  as  yet.  When  I  get  to  know  my  way  about  a  bit,  I  dare 
say  I  shall  find  some  people  who  agree  with  me,  and  we'll 
build  a  chapel.  I  expect  I  shall  have  to  find  most  of  the 
money,  but  I  shan't  mind  that.  I  dare  say  your  people  will 
give  me  a  site,  Mr. — er — Browne,  eh  ?  "  Browne  does  not 
think  that  they  will.  He  thinks  it  would  be  a  pity  to  draw 
the  people  away  from  the  Church  and  make  divisions,  and  he 
hopes  Mr.  Dale  will  think  better  of  it.  Mr.  Dale  says  that 
where  he  comes  from,  one  man  is  as  good  as  another,  what- 
ever place  of  worship  he  attends,  and  he  hopes  it  will  be  so 
here.     Browne  says  it  is  so,  but  doesn't  mean  it. 

As  for  his  Radicalism,  Mr.  Dale  makes  no  disguise  of  it. 
He  asks  all  sorts  of  questions  about  the  Liberal  Association, 
which  Browne  finds  it  difficult  to  answer,  never  having  heard 
of  that  body  since  he  has  been  at  Exton.  Mr.  Dale  is  afraid 
that  Liberalism  must  be  in  a  bad  way  in  this  neighbourhood, 
and  proposes  to  do  what  he  can  to  better  its  way.  Browne 
says  they  have  always  been  good  Conservatives  in  Exton, 
and  Mr.  Coventry,  their  member,  is  a  good  sportsman  and  a 
capital  good  chap  besides,  and  it  would  be  a  thousand  pities 
to  turn  him  out.  Mr.  Dale  asks  whether  he  is  an  active 
politician,  and  Browne  is  obliged  to  confess  that  he  is  not,  as 
he  doesn't  care  about  it,  goes  to  the  House  of  Commons  as 


ARRIVALS  343 

seldom  as  possible,  and  never  opens  his  mouth  when  he  gets 
there.  Mr.  Dale  asks  whether  Browne  thinks  that  is  the 
sort  of  man  who  ought  to  represent  a  constituency,  and 
Browne  says  he  does.  Mr.  Dale  disagrees  with  him,  says 
they  must  put  up  somebody  to  fight  Mr.  Coventry,  and  inti- 
mates that  he  is  ready  to  be  put  up  himself  if  nobody  better 
can  be  found.  However,  political  differences  needn't  make 
people  any  the  less  good  friends,  and  again,  this  is  Liberty 
Hall,  and  Browne  will  be  welcome  whenever  he  likes  to  come. 
Mr.  Dale  returns  to  his  picture-hanging,  and  Browne  takes 
his  departure,  groaning  and  perspiring. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ferraby  bring  their  Whitsuntide  party  down 
to  Forest  Lodge  in  a  specially  reserved  saloon  carriage,  and 
transport  them  from  the  station  in  motor-cars  already  sent  down 
by  road.  Their  guests  number  about  half-a-dozen,  and  each 
of  them  has  been  warned  that  their  entertainment  will  take 
the  form  of  a  picnic,  as  Forest  Lodge  is  a  poky  little  place, 
merely  a  rough  shooting-box.  The  picnic,  however,  does  not 
involve  any  serious  discomfort  to  the  picnickers.  Their 
rooms  are  furnished  luxuriously.  Their  bodily  wants  are  at- 
tended to  by  a  French  chef  and  three  or  four  men-servants. 
There  are  motor-cars  in  which  they  can  be  taken  in  any 
direction  they  wish  to  go,  and  there  is  a  steam  yacht  anchored 
in  the  river  just  below  Warren's  Hard,  and  a  racing  cutter  for 
those  who  prefer  to  be  blown  by  the  winds  of  heaven  rather 
than  propelled  by  steam,  lying  off  Harben  Pier,  six  miles 
away.  So  that  on  the  whole  the  drawbacks  of  ordinary  picnics 
have  been  successfully  surmounted. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ferraby  are  both  comparatively  young.  Mr. 
Ferraby,  despite  his  comparative  youth,  is  a  power  in 
financial  circles  in  the  City.  He  is  considered  sound  as  well 
as  enterprising.  He  may  be  seen  driving  along  the  Thames 
Embankment  in  an  electric  brougham  at  about  ten  o'clock  on 
most  mornings  during  the  London  season,  studying  a  pink 


344  EXTON  MANOR 

paper,  and  returning  at  about  seven  reading  a  green  one.  He 
may  also  be  seen  at  most  places  of  resort  frequented  by  the 
smartest  of  smart  people,  during  the  night,  for  both  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Ferraby  are  popular  members  of  that  class  of  society 
which  is  preached  against  in  pulpits  and  lectured  against  in 
newspapers,  and  whose  names  and  movements  are  made 
familiar  to  the  world  by  the  same  papers  which  lecture  them. 
How  Mr.  Ferraby  succeeds  in  keeping,  and  even  enhancing, 
his  reputation  as  a  sound  financier,  and  making  a  regular  ap- 
pearance at  Ascot,  and  Goodwood,  and  Cowes,  and  other 
places  where  the  more  leisured  of  his  acquaintances  disport 
themselves,  as  well  as  an  occasional  appearance  on  the  Riviera, 
or  at  Biarritz,  or  at  a  foreign  Spa,  staying  at  country  houses 
in  England  and  Scotland  and  Ireland  in  the  Autumn,  and 
shooting  over  the  preserves  he  has  rented  at  Exton,  must  be 
decided  by  the  initiated,  but  he  undoubtedly  does  so,  and 
makes  a  great  deal  of  money  besides.  As  he  does  not  give 
up  the  whole  of  his  life  to  amusing  himself,  and  Mrs.  Ferraby, 
in  the  intervals  of  flying  about  from  one  place  to  another, 
dressing  herself  and  playing  Bridge,  manages  to  dispose  of 
some  of  her  husband's  superfluous  income,  and,  what  is  more 
to  the  point,  some  of  her  own  crowded  hours,  in  the  service 
of  public  charities ;  and  as  both  of  them  are  always  cheerful 
and  friendly,  and  are  much  given  to  hospitality,  not  entirely 
of  the  kind  that  expects  some  return,  perhaps  they  are  not 
amongst  the  worst  members  of  their  much  decried  and  much 
advertised  set. 

They  arrive  at  Forest  Lodge  in  time  to  dress  for  a  conveni- 
ently late  dinner,  and  the  house  is  immediately  filled  with  noise 
and  laughter,  which  sinks  again  into  temporary  silence  as  each 
member  of  the  party  retires  into  his  or  her  separate  cham- 
ber. The  guests  with  one  exception  are  as  smart  as  host  and 
hostess.  There  is  Prince  Alexis  Orvinski,  who  is  very  much 
at  bome  in  English  society,  and  prefers  England  to  Russia, 


ARRIVALS  345 

where  he  is  liable  to  receive  attentions  of  an  explosive  char- 
acter. There  is  the  Earl  of  Bridgwater,  supporting  the  separa- 
tion from  his  Countess,  who  has  gone  to  stay  at  another  house 
farther  down  the  line,  with  exemplary  fortitude.  She  travelled 
down  by  the  same  train  as  he,  although  neither  of  them  knew 
it  till  the  fast  train  was  moving  out  of  Greathampton  Station, 
when  she  put  her  hand  out  of  the  window  and  waved  him  a 
greeting.  There  is  Lady  Buttermere,  also  temporarily 
separated  from  her  husband,  he  being  in  Paris,  and  also  sup- 
porting the  separation  with  resignation.  There  is  Mrs.  Lanc- 
ing, who  has  got  rid  of  her  husband  altogether,  through  the 
agency  of  a  judge  and  jury,  and  has  so  far  resisted  the  temp- 
tation to  acquire  another.  Both  these  ladies  have  attained  the 
rank  of  beauties,  with  the  help  of  the  illustrated  papers,  in 
which  their  photographs  are  constantly  appearing  for  the  bene- 
fit of  those  who  would  otherwise  be  in  the  painful  position  of 
constantly  reading  about  them  without  knowing  what  they  are 
like.  There  is  Major  Laurence  Syde,  of  Her  Majesty's  Bri- 
gade of  Guards,  the  cousin  of  Lord  Wrotham's  who  has  al- 
ready been  mentioned,  a  very  handsome  man,  whose  good 
looks  and  agreeable  manners  are  generally  supposed  to  be  de- 
voted to  the  capturing  of  a  prize  in  the  matrimonial  market. 
If  they  are  they  have  not  yet  been  successful,  possibly  because 
his  requirements,  which  embrace  birth  and  beauty  as  well  as 
large  and  unfettered  wealth,  are  too  exacting. 

And  lastly  there  is  Sir  Francis  RedclifFe,  who  does  not  belong 
to  the  smart  set,  spending  most  of  his  time  as  he  does  in  the 
management  of  his  country  estate,  and  in  the  pursuit  of  coun- 
try sports  and  pastimes.  He  is  the  youngest  of  the  party  ;  his 
age  is  not  more  than  eight  and  twenty.  He  is  a  tall,  healthy- 
looking  young  man,  rather  solemn  and  rather  slow,  and  seems 
to  be  quite  out  of  place  at  this  particular  picnic,  as  the  life  he 
habitually  lives  includes  very  few  of  the  interests  which  pro- 
vide the  rest  of  the  picnickers  with  their  subjects  of  conversa- 


346  EXTON  MANOR 

tion.  But  he  makes  himself  at  home  all  the  same,  and  the  lady 
picnickers  show  a  generous  desire  to  put  him  at  his  ease,  find- 
ing his  solemnity  amusing  and  his  slowness  restful.  Perhaps 
they  would  not  be  so  generous  if  he  were  not  so  good-looking, 
not  with  the  elaborate  and  cultivated  good  looks  of  a  man  of 
fashion  like  Major  Syde,  who  is  so  handsome  and  so  well- 
dressed  that  he  would  be  noticed  in  any  company,  but  good- 
looking  in  the  quiet,  unpretentious  fashion  of  a  healthy  young 
Englishman,  who  thinks  nothing  about  his  features  and  very 
little  about  his  clothes.  He  has  a  good  pair  of  eyes,  and  there 
is  a  straightforward,  unafraid  look  in  them  which  the  lady  pic- 
nickers find  attractive,  and  for  which  they  forgive  him  a  dis- 
concerting disregard  of  their  own  obvious  attractions. 

Sir  Francis  RedclifFe  is  accustomed  to  ask  for  anything  that 
he  wants  if  he  thinks  he  is  justified  in  asking  for  it,  and  he  has 
asked  for  this  invitation  from  Mrs.  Ferraby  for  reasons  which 
will  be  disclosed.  Mrs.  Ferraby's  family  are  neighbours  of  Sir 
Francis  RedcIifFe's  in  Worcestershire.  She  likes  him,  and  is 
always  ready  to  do  a  kindness  to  anybody,  so  here  he  is,  mak- 
ing one  of  his  rare  appearances  in  fashionable  society,  and 
ready,  for  all  his  solemnity,  to  take  his  part  in  whatever  goes 
forward  to  the  best  of  his  ability. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

A  DINNER-PARTY   AT   FOREST   LODGE 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ferraby  being  accustomed  to  spend  most  of 
their  waking  hours  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd,  and  being  so  un- 
used to  eating  their  dinner  except  in  company  that  they  would 
hardly  be  able  to  eat  it  at  all  if  condemned  to  a  solitude  of  two, 
it  was  only  natural  that  Mrs.  Ferraby  should  increase  the  num- 
ber at  her  dinner-table  on  the  first  evening  of  their  arrival  by 
inviting  Lord  Wrotham  and  Norah  O'Keefe  and  Browne  and 
Turner  to  take  their  seats  at  it.  Eight  people  could  be  dined 
in  great  comfort  with  as  much  elbow-room  as  could  be  desired, 
and  twelve  could  not,  but  possibly  the  picnic  appearance  of 
the  occasion,  on  which  Mrs.  Ferraby  laid  such  stress,  was 
helped  out  by  the  crush,  and  at  any  rate  there  was  no  lack 
of  gaiety  or  noise  when  the  diners  did  at  last  squeeze  them- 
selves into  their  places,  at  about  nine  o'clock,  even  if  they 
were  a  trifle  too  close  to  one  another. 

It  was  significant  of  that  ready  good  nature  and  adaptability 
which  made  the  Ferrabys  popular  amongst  their  friends  that 
they  should  have  been  as  ready  to  offer  hospitality  to  their 
quiet  country  neighbours  as  to  their  smart  London  acquaint- 
ance. Lord  Wrotham  was  invited  not  exactly  as  a  country 
neighbour,  and  Norah  O'Keefe  had  gone  about  in  London  and 
elsewhere  before  her  husband's  death,  and  would  have  been 
welcome  anywhere ;  but  Browne  and  Turner,  the  one  a  life- 
long bucolic  and  the  other  a  recluse,  had  no  connections  what- 
ever with  any  part  of  the  life  led  by  the  Ferrabys,  except  their 
occasional  picnics,  and  were  there  as  country  neighbours  only. 
The  fact  that  they  both  accepted  all  the  invitations  to  the 
Forest  Lodge  that  were  tendered  them,  and  enjoyed  themselves 

347 


348  EXTON  MANOR 

when  they  got  there,  may  be  taken  as  a  proof  that  the  nospi- 
tality  of  the  Ferrabys  was  based  upon  a  genuine  liking  for  their 
fellow-creatures,  as  all  hospitality  should  be,  and  that  their  gen- 
eral popularity  was  not  undeserved. 

Browne  and  Turner  arrived  punctually  at  half-past  eight,  the 
hour  at  which  they  had  been  asked  to  arrive,  and  were  shown 
into  an  empty  drawing-room. 

*'  Not  down  yet,"  said  Browne. 

"  No,  and  won't  be  for  another  quarter  of  an  hour,"  said 
Turner.  "  Can't  think  what  you  were  in  such  a  hurry  to  get 
off  for." 

"  I'm  hungry,"  said  Browne  simply.  "  I  say,  I  wonder 
why  they  haven't  asked  the  RedclifFes.     They  gen'ly  do." 

"You  said  that  coming  along — three  times.  You  always 
do  say  everything  three  times.     How  should  I  know  ? " 

"  I  hope  Mrs.  Ferraby  hasn't  heard  anything  about  this 
business,  and  is  standing  ofF." 

"  You've  said  that  three  times  too,  if  not  four,  and  I  told  you 
Mrs.  Ferraby  wasn't  that  sort." 

Sir  Francis  RedclifFe  came  into  the  room  at  that  moment, 
and  there  was  some  hesitation  as  to  whether  he  should  be  ac- 
cepted at  once  as  a  man  and  a  brother,  or  ignored  until  a  due 
introduction  should  render  him  so  ex  officio.  He  solved  the 
difficulty  himself  by  remarking  that  it  was  a  fine  evening,  and 
having  thus  matriculated  in  approved  fashion,  was  allowed  to 
proceed  to  the  higher  degrees  without  further  loss  of  time. 

"  Do  you  know  my  cousins,  the  Redcliffes,  who  live  here  ?  " 
he  asked  presently,  when  he  had  discovered  that  Browne  and 
Turner  were  residentiary,  and  not  migratory  like  himself. 

Browne  stared  at  him,  and  Turner  said,  "  Yes.  Particular 
friends  of  ours — both  of  us.  Thought  they  hadn't  any  rela- 
tions in  England,  though." 

"  My  name's  RedclifFe,"  said  Sir  Francis.  "  George  Red- 
clifFe was  a  first  cousin  of  my  father's.     I  didn't  know  they 


A  DINNER-PARTY  AT  FOREST  LODGE     349 

were  in  England  until  a  week  or  two  ago,  or  I  should  have 
looked  them  up.  Wrotham  told  me.  I  ran  up  against  him 
in  town  a  week  ago.  I'm  going  to  look  them  up  to-morrow. 
She's  a  nice  woman,  isn't  she  ?  " 

"  One  of  the  best  that  ever  stepped,"  said  Turner.  "  Very 
glad  you're  going  to  see  her." 

Sir  Francis  seemed  about  to  say  something,  but  apparently 
changed  his  mind. 

"  Mrs.  Ferraby  likes  her,  I  think,"  said  Brovi^ne  tentatively. 

"  Oh,  yes.  She  likes  her  very  much.  She's  asked  them  to 
dine  here  to-morrow.  Would  have  asked  them  to-night,  but 
I  wanted  to  go  and  see  her  first." 

Again  he  appeared  as  if  he  had  something  else  to  say,  but 
he  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Norah  O'Keefe,  look- 
ing so  beautiful  that  Browne  and  Turner  both  drew  in  their 
breaths,  and  even  Francis  RedclifFe  was  impressed,  and  won- 
dered who  she  could  be. 

Mr.  Ferraby  came  in,  genial  and  alert.  "  You  know  what 
we  are  here,"  he  said  by  way  of  apology,  **  always  behind 
time.  And  how  are  you,  Mrs.  O'Keefe  ?  Not  quite  taken 
root  yet,  eh  ?  We're  going  to  take  you  all  over  the  place 
while  we're  here.  How  do,  Browne  ?  How  do.  Turner  ? 
Browne,  you're  getting  fat.  Mrs.  O'Keefe,  let  me  introduce 
Sir  Francis  RedclifFe.  He's  come  here  to  dig  out  his  long-lost 
cousins.  Mrs.  Patrick  O'Keefe.  Well,  Turner,  not  got 
tired  of  the  fish  yet,  eh  ?  " 

Lord  Bridgwater  came  in.  He  recognized  Mrs.  O'Keefe 
and  shook  hands  with  her,  but  she  soon  hurried  back  to  Fran- 
cis RedclifFe,  with  whom  she  had  been  in  conversation.  Lord 
Bridgwater  recognized  Turner.  "  Hulloa,  Diogenes,"  he 
said,  "  who'd  have  thought  of  seeing  you  after  all  these  years  .? 
I  should  have  known  your  solemn  old  visage  anywhere.  Last 
time  we  met — let's  see " 

"  Was  when  you'd  got  more  hair  on  your  head  than  you 


350  EXTON  MANOR 

have  now,"  said  Turner.  "  You've  become  a  big  man  since 
then,  Tubby.  Thank  you  for  not  being  too  proud  to  knovtr 
me. 

"  You  old  fraud  !  "  said  Bridgwater,  digging  him  in  the  ribs. 
"  Still  as  hard-headed  and  soft-hearted  as  ever,  eh  ?  " 

Prince  Orvinski  and  Major  Syde  came  in.  "  Is  that  Sidcy 
Syde  ?  "  said  Turner,  "  or  do  my  eyes  deceive  me  ?  He  was 
my  fag  at  Bourdon's."  The  prince  was  introduced  to  Mrs. 
O'Keefe.  Laurence  Syde  looked  as  if  he  would  like  to  be, 
but  as  the  Russian  was  paying  her  stifF-backed  compliments, 
which  would  take  him  some  time  to  bring  to  a  successful  issue, 
he  cast  his  eyes  over  the  other  men  in  the  room  and  lighted 
upon  Turner.  "  Hulloa,  Diogenes  !  "  he  said  coolly,  ''  run 
you  to  earth  at  last.  Thought  you'd  gone  under  altogether. 
How  are  you  ?  " 

"  I'm  very  well,  thank  you,  Sidey,"  replied  Turner.  '*  Var- 
nish factory  still  going  strong  ?  " 

Laurence's  reply  was  lost  in  a  rustle  of  skirts  as  Mrs. 
Ferraby  and  Lady  Buttermere  swept  into  the  room.  Mrs. 
Ferraby  went  straight  to  Norah  O'Keefe,  greeted  her  warmly, 
and  then  shook  hands  with  Browne  and  Turner,  smiling  and 
talking  all  the  time.  Lady  Buttermere  looked  round  for  Mrs. 
Lancing,  and  seemed  disappointed  to  find  that  she  herself  was 
not  the  last  arrival,  which  she  might  very  well  have  been,  as  it 
was  already  ten  minutes  to  nine.  The  room  was  full  of  talk 
and  laughter,  when  Lord  Wrotham  made  his  appearance,  eool 
and  fresh,  and  grinning  with  sheer  affability.  He  was  very 
soon  talking  and  laughing  as  loudly  as  any  one,  and  had  singled 
out  Norah  O'Keefe  as  the  most  fitting  recipient  of  his  spirited 
excursions,  showing  Prince  Orvinski  the  shape  of  a  British 
shoulder,  and  quite  eclipsing  Francis  RedclifFe,  who  stood  in  a 
corner  behind  them  and  looked  lost. 

It  was  just  upon  half-an-hour  past  the  appointed  hour  for 
dinner,  which  had  already  been  announced  in  a  hopeless  ^'.ind 


A  DINNER-PARTY  AT  FOREST  LODGE     351 

of  way  by  the  butler,  as  who  should  say,  "  I  mention  this  as  it 
is  my  duty  to  do  so,  but  without  the  slightest  expectation  of 
being  attended  to."  All  the  ladies  were  still  chattering  gaily, 
but  the  men  had  begun  to  finger  their  waistcoats  and  look 
round  them,  when  the  door  opened  to  admit  Mrs.  Lancing, 
who  came  in  quietly,  but  with  an  air  of  complacence,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "  I  think  I've  done  it  this  time."  A  moment's  pause 
in  the  torrent  of  chatter  from  all  except  Lady  Buttermere,  who 
had  her  back  turned  to  the  door,  and  kept  it  there,  was  her  re- 
ward. Certainly  Mrs.  Lancing's  get-up,  if  not  eminently 
suitable  for  a  picnic,  was  worth  the  strenuous  hour  she  had 
spent  over  it.  It  drew  a  momentary  appraising  glance  from 
Mrs.  Ferraby  and  Norah  O'Keefe,  and  it  performed  the 
curious  operation  of  slightly  opening  the  mouths  of  the  men  in 
the  room.  It  so  impressed  Lord  Bridgwater  that  he  was  able 
to  describe  it  a  few  weeks  later  to  Lady  Bridgwater,  when 
they  met  unexpectedly  under  the  beeches  at  Goodwood,  and 
had  a  few  minutes'  quiet  chat.  "  ChifFon,"  he  said,  "  of  a  sort 
of  green  you  never  see.  Just  that  and  some  pearls  in  her 
hair ;  you  know  her  hair — sort  of  shining  copper.  But,  by 
Jove,  it  was  stunning  !  " 

They  went  into  the  dining-room,  and  the  butler  stood  by 
the  door,  and  looked  at  them  with  mournful  eyes.  "  It  is  all 
very  well,"  he  seemed  to  say,  "  but  I  have  no  illusions  left 
about  you.  You  are  nothing  but  froth,  and  I  know  a  good 
deal  more  about  you  than  you  think."  But  even  he  cast  a 
semi-approving  glance  at  Mrs.  Lancing,  and  seemed  to  correct 
his  judgment,  and  to  be  saying,  *'  Well,  perhaps  you  have 
your  uses  as  ornamental  accessories  to  a  dinner-table,  arranged 
as  only  I  can  arrange  it." 

There  were  only  four  ladies  to  eight  men.  Mrs.  Ferraby 
and  Prince  Orvinski  sat  side  by  side  at  the  head  of  the  table, 
and  Mr.  Ferraby  and  Lady  Buttermere  at  the  foot.  On  the 
prince's  right  was  Mrs.  Lancing,  and  then  Lord  Bridgwater, 


352  EXTON  MANOR 

Browne,  and  Francis  RedclifFe.  On  Mrs.  Ferraby's  left  were 
Lord  Wrotham,  who  had  Norah  O'Keefe  next  to  him,  and 
beyond  her  were  Laurence  Syde  and  Turner.  Everybody 
talked  loudly  except  Francis  RedclifFe  and  Browne  and 
Turner.  The  sad  butler  lost  no  time  in  inciting  them  to 
further  efforts,  assisted  by  one  of  his  satellites,  and  as  he 
whispered  interrogatively,  "  Champagne  ?  "  seemed  to  add, 
*'  I  ask  you  as  a  matter  of  form.  You  are  nothing  but  froth, 
and  this  is  your  fitting  refreshment." 

The  talk  swelled  into  a  hurricane,  which  filled  the  room 
and  passed  out  through  the  open  windows  into  the  quiet 
night,  and  seemed  to  stir  the  trees  of  the  forest  into  uneasy 
protest.  Every  now  and  then  it  subsided  a  little,  as  groups 
of  two  or  three  withdrew  themselves  from  the  general  con- 
versation, like  small  bubbles  breaking  off  from  a  cluster  of 
bubbles,  and  then  coming  back  to  it.  Prince  Orvinski  and 
Mrs.  Lancing  were  periodically  confidential,  and  sometimes 
Prince  Orvinski  addressed  himself  to  his  hostess  while  Lord 
Bridgwater  and  Mrs.  Lancing  talked  together.  Wrotham 
and  Laurence  Syde,  on  either  side  of  Norah  O'Keefe,  vied 
with  one  another  to  monopolize  her  attention.  Francis  Red- 
clifFe and  Browne  found  one  another  stimulating  on  the  subject 
of  estate  management.  Mr.  Ferraby  and  Lady  Buttermere 
chaffed  each  other,  and  Turner  threw  in  an  occasional  con- 
tribution to  their  babble  of  wit,  or  insisted  upon  Laurence 
Syde's  attention,  as  he  advised  him  to  follow  his  own  example 
and  settle  down  in  an  out-of-the-way  country  place,  where  he 
needn't  trouble  about  his  clothes  or  be  bothered  with  women. 
The  Guardsman  took  this  advice  in  good  part,  laughed  at  his 
adviser,  and  gave  him  back  as  good  as  he  received. 

But  these  interludes  were  only  momentary.  The  big  group 
of  bubbles  hung  together  for  the  most  part,  and  if  it  is  true 
that  laughter  is  the  best  possible  aid  to  digestion,  the  Ferrabys' 
chefw&s  justified  in  ignormg  the  possibilities  of  that  compiainv 


A  DINNER-PARTY  AT  FOREST  LODGii     353 

following  after  a  dinner  that  would  have  put  to  shame  any 
picnic  caterer  since  the  days  of  LucuUus. 

When  the  ladies  had  left  the  room,  Mr.  Ferraby  went  to 
the  other  end  of  the  table,  but  by  and  by  Lord  Wrotham  and 
his  cousin  detached  themselves  from  the  group  he  had  formed 
and  talked  together.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  the  younger 
man,  good-natured  and  simple,  in  spite  of  his  position  in  the 
world,  and  his  numerous  energies  and  pursuits,  was  under  the 
influence  of  his  brilliant  and  self-possessed  elder,  looked  up  to 
him  as  a  pattern  of  experienced  manhood,  and  deferred  to  his 
opinions.  "  I  say,  she's  a  topping  little  lady,  Mrs.  O'Keefe," 
he  said,  but  he  said  it  not  in  the  way  he  would  have  said  it  to 
a  friend  of  his  own  age,  but  tentatively,  with  his  eye  en  his 
cousin's  face,  as  if  he  was  ready  to  defer  to  his  opinion,  even 
in  such  matters  as  these,  with  which  he  was  more  than  usually 
competent  to  deal. 

*'  Don't  you  go  making  a  fool  of  yourself  with  her,  Kem," 
said  the  other. 

"  Ob,  lor',  no,"  said  Wrotham,  as  if  it  was  the  last  thing 
that  would  have  entered  his  mind.  "  But,  I  say,  old  chap, 
you  seemed  a  bit  taken  with  her  yourself,  what  ?  " 

Laurence  turned  his  eyes  calmly  upon  him.  "  You're  talk- 
ing through  your  hat,"  he  said  coldly,  and  Wrotham  hastened 
to  apologize  for  his  indiscretion. 

Three  Bridge-tables  were  brought  into  the  drawing-room 
after  dinner,  which  was  about  as  many  as  it  would  hold,  but 
only  one  of  them  was  occupied  until  after  the  country  neigh- 
bours had  left,  and  the  rest  sang  songs  round  the  piano,  or 
talked  in  corners.  Laurence  Syde,  somewhat  inconsistently, 
devoted  himself  to  the  entertainment  of  Norah  O'Keefe,  in 
the  quietest  corner  that  could  be  found,  and  that  was  not  very 
quiet.  To  judge  by  her  frequent  trills  of  laughter,  he  met 
with  considerable  success  in  his  undertaking,  and  Wrotham, 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  singing  lustily,  with  frequent 


354  EXTON  MANOR 

glances  in  their  direction,  could  neither  dislodge  them  from 
their  stronghold  to  join  in  the  music,  nor  insinuate  himself 
into  their  company. 

He  had  his  reward,  however,  later,  when  by  what  he  con- 
sidered a  most  fortunate  interference  of  Providence,  Norah's 
coachman  was  discovered  to  have  succumbed  to  the  pervading 
hospitality  of  the  house  while  waiting  for  his  mistress,  and  to 
be  incapable  of  driving  her  home.  He  immediately  offered 
to  do  so  in  his  mother's  carriage,  the  charioteer  of  which  was 
proof,  perhaps  in  his  head,  perhaps  in  his  morals,  against  the 
temptation,  and  drove  off  with  her  amidst  a  chorus  of  talk 
and  laughter  from  the  assembled  guests,  amongst  whom  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  his  cousin's  face,  dark  and  annoyed,  as 
he  pushed  up  the  window,  and  the  dejected  countenances  of 
Browne  and  Turner,  whose  offers  at  accommodation  had  been 
put  lightly  aside. 

The  house  party  went  back  to  their  Bridge,  which  now 
became  a  serious  affair,  and  lasted  until  long  after  the  average 
picnicker  would  have  been  wrapt  in  slumber ;  lasted,  indeed, 
until  those  most  inveterate  of  picnickers,  the  birds,  were  begin- 
ning to  bestir  themselves  for  another  day  in  the  open,  and 
Sir  Francis  Redcliffe  was  so  sleepy  that  he  revoked  three 
times  in  as  many  games,  and  lost  his  final  rubber,  and  a  good 
deal  of  money  besides. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

A   VISIT   AND   A    CONVERSATION 

IT  was  with  some  surprise  that  Mrs.  Redcliffe  received  the 
next  morning  a  letter  from  her  husband's  kinsman,  written 
from  London  the  day  before,  in  which  he  said  that  he  had 
only  lately  heard  from  Lord  Wrotham  of  her  being  in  Eng- 
land, or  he  should  have  hoped  to  make  her  acquaintance 
before,  as  she  and  her  daughter  must  be  the  only  relations  he 
had  on  his  father's  side.  He  was  going  down  to  stay  with 
the  Ferrabys  for  a  few  days  that  afternoon,  and  would  like  to 
see  her,  and  would  come,  if  she  had  no  objection,  the  next 
morning  about  eleven  o'clock. 

"  I  only  heard  of  him  as  a  very  small  boy  from  your 
%ther,"  said  Mrs.  RedclifFe  to  Hilda.  "  I  think  he  must  he 
twenty-seven  or  eight  now.  It  is  a  kind  letter.  I  shall  be 
tlad  to  see  him." 

jnilda  was  not  so  sure.  She  was  inclined  to  be  suspicious. 
"  Does  he  know  ?  "  was  in  her  thoughts,  but  she  kept  them 
to  herself,  and  decided  to  hold  a  watchful  attitude  when  her 
cousin  did  come.  Lord  Wrotham's  name  introduced  into  the 
letter  inclined  her  on  the  whole  to  leniency.  Lord  Wrotham 
was  kindness  and  thoughtfulness  itself,  and  had  probably  asked 
this  young  man  to  do  what  he  could  to  soften  down  the 
unpleasantness  which  he  knew  she  and  her  mother  were 
undergoing.  Full  credit  must  be  given  to  Lord  Wrotham,  of 
course,  for  his  probable  endeavours ;  but  it  remained  to  be 
seen  whether  Sir  Francis  RedclifFe  had  responded  to  them  out 
of  mere  complacency,  or  with  a  genuine  desire  to  take  his 
stand  by  his  relations  against  the  world.  If  the  former,  she 
was  sure  she  would  find  him  out  very  soon,  and  in  that  case 

355 


356  EXTON  MANOR 

he  would  not  be  welcome.  But  his  letter  was  a  nice  one. 
She  could  not  deny  that,  and  hoped  on  the  whole  that  he 
might  acquit  himself  to  her  satisfaction. 

He  came  about  half-past  eleven,  in  a  motor-car,  and 
apologized  for  being  late.  "  We  didn't  breakfast  much 
before  eleven,"  he  said,  "  and  I  couldn't  get  away."  He 
seemed  to  think  it  of  importance  to  have  something  definite 
to  say  as  he  came  in,  and  at  first  Hilda  was  doubtful  of 
him.  He  was  awkward,  or  if  not  exactly  awkward,  nervous 
and  shy.  He  held  himself  very  straight  and  did  not  smile 
as  he  greeted  them,  and  when  he  sat  down  in  an  easy-chair, 
which  he  did  upon  Mrs.  RedclifFe's  invitation,  he  sat  for- 
ward with  his  elbows  resting  on  his  knees  and  played  with 
his  cap  as  if  he  were  not  at  his  ease.  But  presently  he 
became  more  so,  and  it  was  quite  plain  that  his  nervousness 
and  shyness  were  only  attributable  to  his  doubt  as  to 
whether  his  coming  at  all  would  be  agreeable  to  them,  and 
did  not  arise  from  any  doubt  on  his  own  behalf;  and  by  and 
by,  when  he  laughed,  Hilda  accepted  him  as  a  cousin  at 
once,  for  his  laugh  was  honest  and  free  and  compelled  liking. 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,"  he  said,  "  I  didn't  know  I  had 
any  relations  on  my  father's  side.  He  died  when  I  was  a 
baby  and  my  mother  died  when  I  was  born.  When  Wrotham 
told  me  about  you  I  looked  it  up  in  the  books,  but  they  only 
told  me  that  my  father  had  a  first  cousin,  and  his  regiment, 
and  his  being  A.  D.  C,  and  so  on,  but  there  was  nothing 
more  about  him.  I  suppose  there  was  nobody  to  fill  up  the 
papers  after  my  father  died.  He  was  the  only  RedclifFe  be- 
sides me." 

"Your  father  was  dead,  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  RedclifFe, 
*'  when  my  husband  was  first  married  to  my  sister,  and  of 
course  when  he  married  me  a  year  later."  She  spoke  in  a 
matter-of-fact  tone,  but  with  a  slight  change  of  colour,  and 
Hilda  threw  a  searching  glance  at  him. 


A  VISIT  AND  A  CONVERSATION  357 

"  I  know,"  he  said  in  obvious  allusion  to  Mrs.  RedcIifFc's 
story  rather  than  to  her  statement;  and  that  was  the  only 
reference  to  it  that  passed  his  lips  during  his  visit.  But  it 
was  enough.  Hilda  put  away  her  suspicions  once  for  all,  and 
became  more  and  more  kindly  disposed  towards  him  as  he 
talked. 

"I  hope  you  and  Miss  RedclifFe,"  he  said,  throwing  a 
glance  at  Hilda  as  he  mentioned  her  name,  "will  come  and 
pay  me  a  visit  at  Riverslea.  I'm  there  pretty  nearly  always. 
I  don't  use  all  the  house  myself  and  I  don't  often  have  people 
staymg  with  me,  except  a  few  men  to  shoot  occasionally ;  but 
I'll  open  it  in  your  honour.  To  tell  you  the  truth  I'm  rather 
pleased  to  find  some  relations,  and  I  feel  inclined  to  make  a 
lot  of  them." 

It  was  at  this  point  that  he  laughed,  and  after  that 
he  leant  back  in  his  chair,  and  talked  altogether  more 
easily. 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  was  touched  by  his  kindness.  "  I  should 
much  like  to  come,"  she  said.  "  And  I  should  like  Hilda  to 
see  the  house.  Her  father  spent  many  happy  days  of  his 
childhood  there  and  often  talked  to  me  of  it." 

"  It's  a  dear  old  place,"  said  Sir  Francis  ;  "  not  one  of  the 
show  places,  you  know,  but  rambling  and  comfortable,  and 
hardly  anything  has  been  altered  in  it  for — oh,  I  don't  know 
how  long — two  or  three  hundred  years,  perhaps.  All  the  old 
furniture  is  there,  and  there's  a  beautiful  garden.  I  don't 
do  much  with  the  garden,  I'm  so  busy  on  the  land,  but 
I  keep  it  up.  You've  got  a  very  pretty  garden  here."  He 
looked  out  of  the  big  bow-window  on  to  the  lawn  and 
the  rose-beds,  and  the  big  border  of  hardy  flowers  oppo- 
site to  the  house,  just  beginning  to  put  on  its  summer  dress  of 
colour. 

"  Yes,  it  is  our  hobby,  Hilda's  and  mine,"  said  Mrs.  Red- 
cliffe.     '*  We  don't  know  many  big  gardens,  but  we  are  great 


358  EXTON  MANOR 

readers  of  gardening  books.  Shall  we  go  out  and  see  it  ?  I 
will  just  go  and  get  a  hat." 

Hilda  was  left  alone  for  a  minute  with  her  cousin.  They 
eyed  one  another.  Sir  Francis  seemed  to  suffer  from  an  ac- 
cess of  shyness,  but  recovered  from  it  sufficiently  to  say,  *'  I 
hope  you'll  be  able  to  come  soon  j  Warwickshire's  very  jolly 
in  the  summer." 

"  I  should  love  to  come,"  said  Hilda.  "  It  is  very  kind  of 
you  to  ask  us." 

Sir  Francis's  shyness  descended  on  him  again.  "  No,  it 
isn't,"  he  said.     "  Not  a  bit." 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  came  in  from  the  hall,  and  they  all  went  out 
into  the  garden.  "When  we've  had  a  look  round,"  said  Sir 
Francis,  "  I  thought  perhaps  you  would  both  like  to  come 
for  a  sail.  Mr.  Ferraby's  boat  is  ready  at  Harben  and 
I've  got  it  for  the  day,  and  that  motor-car.  All  the  rest 
of  our  party  have  gone  on  the  yacht.  I  thought  we  might 
take  Mr.  Browne.  They  have  put  me  up  a  luncheon  basket. 
We  could  sail  over  to  the  Island  and  back.  The  wind  is  just 
right." 

"It  would  be  delightful,"  said  Mrs.  RedclifFe;  but  Hilda 
put  in,  slightly  blushing,  "  Lord  Wrotham  said  he  was 
coming  after  lunch,  mother.     He  wanted  us  to  go  on  the  river.'* 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  was  silent.  She  had  not  been  consulted  as 
to  this  arrangement. 

"  Wrotham  ?  "  said  Sir  Francis.  "  He  has  gone  on  the  yacht. 
They  won't  be  back  till  dinner-time." 

"  He  only  said  he  might  come,"  said  Hilda  hastily.  "  Do 
let  us  go,  mother.     I  love  sailing." 

"  Do  you  ?  "  said  Sir  Francis,  looking  at  her  with  pleasure. 
"So  do  I.     Especially  on  the  sea.     Then  you'll  come  ?  " 

Hilda  was  determined  to  go,  and  grew  quite  excited  at  the 
prospect,  but  her  determination  and  excitement  did  not  seem 
to  spring  from  any  pleasure  in  the  prospect  of  the  excursion, 


A  VISIT  AND  A  CONVERSATION  359 

although  she  said  they  did.     Mrs.  RedclifFe  acquiesced  in  the 
proposal. 

"  I'll  just  run  down  to  the  village  and  see  if  I  can  get  hold 
of  Browne,  while  you  are  getting  ready,"  said  Sir  Francis. 
"  They  told  me  he  would  be  at  his  office." 

Browne  was  duly  got  hold  of.  He  had  a  lot  of  work  to  do, 
but  thought  he  might  manage  it.  "  I  shall  be  glad  to  get  out 
for  an  hour  or  two  and  have  a  blow,"  he  said.  "  I'm  in- 
fernally worried  here.  I  say,  do  you  think  you'd  have  room 
for  Turner  too  ?  He's  just  gone  up  to  the  post-office.  I 
know  he  likes  a  sail,  and  he  likes  your  cousins." 

Sir  Francis  thought  there  would  be  room  for  Turner.  The 
car  was  a  six-seated  one  and  the  boat  would  hold  them  all. 
So  Turner  was  approached  on  the  subject,  and  presently  they 
all  went  ofF  together,  picking  up  Mrs.  RedclifFe  and  Hilda  on 
the  way. 

By  the  time  they  came  home  again,  late  in  the  afternoon, 
they  had  quite  taken  Sir  Francis  into  their  bond  of  friendship 
*'  That's  a  capital  good  chap,"  said  Turner  in  unwonted  en- 
thusiasm later  on  in  the  evening,  as  he  and  Browne  were 
dining  together  at  the  Fisheries.  "  Don't  know  when  I've 
met  a  fellow  I  liked  better.  Sensible  and  honest  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  and  no  side  to  him,  and — and — a  thoroughly 
good  chap." 

"  One  of  the  best,"  acquiesced  Browne,  "  and  I'll  tell  you 
a  thing  that's  occurred  to  me.  Turner.  I  may  be  right  or  I 
may  be  wrong,  but  I  believe  he's  come  down  here  on  purpose 
to  show  that  he's  ready  to  back  up  his  relations  and  to  show 
the  spiteful  cats  that  are  talking  about  them  that  they're  good 

enough   for  A/ot,  and Mind  you,  he's  never  uttered  a 

word  about  the  business,  but " 

"  That's  a  great  discovery,"  interrupted  Turner.  "  You 
ought  to  be  a  detective,  Maximilian.  You'd  make  your  for- 
tune." 


36o  EXTON  MANOR 

*'  Well,  /  can  see  a  thing  sometimes  when  it's  there  in 
front  of  me.  And  there's  another  thing.  I  think  he's  taken 
an  uncommon  fancy  to  Hilda.  I  may  be  right  or  I  may  be 
wrong,  but  that's  my  impression." 

"  Well,  of  course,  if  you  say  so Of  course  things  that 

duller  fellows  mightn't  think  much  of  are  quite  enough  for 
your  mighty  brain  to  work  on.  I  did  notice  myself,  that  he 
kept  his  eyes  on  her  all  the  time,  and  seemed  to  like  showing 
her  how  to  handle  a  sheet,  and  talked  a  lot  of  what  he'd  do 
for  her  when  he  got  her  down  to  his  place — but  I  can't  put 
two  and  two  together  like  you  can.  You're  a  wonderful 
fellow,  Maximilian." 

"Well,  I'm  a  bit  slow,  but  I  do  notice  things.  Now  that 
young  Fred  Prentice  has  sheered  off — and  a  good  job  too  j 
he  was  never  good  enough  for  her " 

"  He's  a  rotter.  The  cheek  of  the  young  fool !  How- 
ever, he's  gone.  Something  happened.  I'm  sure  something 
happened,  though  I  don't  know  what.  But  there's  your 
employer,  Browne — you've  got  to  take  him  into  account,  in 
your  position — can't  afford  to  be  independent.  He's  in  the 
way  too.  He  was  up  there  directly  he  came  yesterday  after- 
noon.    He's  smitten.     There's  not  a  doubt  about  it." 

"  I  don't  think  anything  of  him.  At  least,  I  mean,  where 
that  sort  of  thing  is  concerned.  He's  always  been  like  that,  run- 
ning after  every  pretty  girl  he  sees.     It  doesn't  mean  anything." 

"  Well,  I   dare    say I  haven't  got  your  powers  of 

observation,  but  it  did  occur  to  me  that  it  means  something 
to  Miss  Hilda.  She  wasn't  herself  to-day — very  gay  at  one 
time  and  thinking  about  something  a  long  way  off  at  others. 
I  hate  a  fellow  who's  always  dancing  about  after  a  petticoat. 
Wouldn't  do  it  myself,  and  if  I  did  it  wouldn't  be  one  petti- 
coat to-day  and  another  to-morrow." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  noticed  anything  last  night," 
said  Browne  tentatively. 


A  VISIT  AND  A  CONVERSATION  361 

"  Oh,  no,  nothing  at  all — 'cept  that  I'd  got  a  nose  in  front 
of  my  face." 

''  Well,  I  don't  know  how  you  feel  about  it.  I  know  you 
had  ideas  about — about  the  lady  in  question,  whatever  you 
like  to  say,  and  I  don't  mind  confessing  to  you  now,  that 
I  had  some  sort  of  an  idea  myself.  But  it's  all  over  now. 
I  feel  different  about  it  somehow.  I  shouldn't  care  a  bit  if 
she  married  somebody  else,  'slong  as  he  was  a  nice  fellow. 
But  what  do  you  feel  about  it  ?  " 

"  Considering  I've  always  been  advising  you  to  marry  her 
and  ht  done  with  it,  I  suppose  I  feel  much  the  same.  What 
you  say  about  me  is  all  nonsense,  and  you  know  it  as  well  as 
I  do.  I  don't  want  to  marry  anybody,  and  never  have  wanted 
to  marry  anybody.     I'm  quite  contented  as  I  am." 

*'Well,  it'd  be  funny  if  Wrotham  were  to  be  the  man. 
I  don't  know  what  her  ladyship'd  say.  Of  course,  she  won't 
have  anything  to  do  with  her  ladyship  now,  because  of  Mrs. 
RedclifFe." 

"  Quite  right  too.  I  honour  her  for  it,  and  so  would  you 
if  you  had  the  pluck  of  a  mouse." 

"  I  do.  I  think  she's  quite  right.  Well,  I  say  it'd  be  a 
funny  thing.  But  I  don't  know  whether  you  observed — I 
couldn't  help  thinking  that  Major  Syde  was  quite  as  much 
struck  as  Wrotham  last  night." 

"  Couldn't  you  ?     Well,  you  have  got  an  eye." 

"  I've  never  met  him  before,  although  I've  often  heard  of 
him  from  Wrotham.  He  seems  agreeable,  but  I  don't  know 
much  about  him." 

"  I  do.  He's  agreeable  enough  on  the  outside — at  least 
so  people  seem  to  think,  and  especially  ladies.  He  doesn't 
make  much  impression  on  me,  because  I  don't  care  a  damn 
about  outside  agreeableness.  If  I  did  I  shouldn't  see  much 
of  you.  But  inside,  he's  as  rotten  and  selfish  and  heartless 
as  anybody  I  know.     He  was  like  that  as  a  boy  and  he's  no 


362  EXTON  MANOR 

better,  and  probably  a  good  deal  worse,  as  a  man.  Why,  I 
remember  him  telling  me — I've  never  forgotten  it,  though 
I  dare  say  he  has — how  his  father  married  a  very  rich  widow 
for  the  sake  of  her  money,  and  the  old  beast  and  this  preco- 
cious young  beast  put  their  heads  together  to  turn  her  against  a 
nephew  of  hers,  who  might  have  stood  in  their  way.  He  was 
proud  of  it,  the  young  swine,  and  he  was  never  so  surprised 
in  his  life  as  when  I  gave  him  a  good  hiding  for  thinking  I 
was  the  sort  of  fellow  he  could  tell  a  story  like  that  to." 

"  His  father  was  Sir  Franklin  Syde,  old  Lord  Wrotham's 
brother." 

"  I  don't  care  who  he  was.  He  made  ducks  and  drakes 
of  his  wife's  money  and  this  beauty  here  helped  him.  He 
knows  better  than  to  talk  about  it  now,  I  dare  say.  But 
everybody  knows  the  facts." 

"  Lady  Syde  is  here  now.  She  came  to  stay  at  the  Abbey 
this  morning." 

"  Did  she  ?  Well,  I  know  nothing  about  her,  except  that 
she  was  a  fool  to  marry  her  second  husband.  But  this  fellow 
— God  help  her  if  she's  taken  a  fancy  to  him.  He'd  spend 
every  penny  she's  got  and  then  forsake  her.  There's 
nothing  too  bad  for  him.  However,  you  needn't  trouble 
yourself.  He's  pretty  well  on  his  last  legs,  and  happily  she's 
not  big  enough  game  for  him  to  be  flying  at." 

"  He's  Wrotham's  heir,  you  know,  until  Wrotham 
marries  and  has  a  boy  of  his  own.  Wrotham  thinks  a  lot 
of  him." 

"Yes,  exactly.  And  he'll  take  good  care  that  Wrotham 
goes  on  thinking  a  lot  of  him,  and  not  only  for  what  he  can 
get  out  of  Wrotham,  though  that's  a  good  deal,  and  so  you'll 
find  out  if  you  have  anything  to  do  with  the  finances  of 
Wrotham's  property.  He'll  be  always  at  Wrotham's  elbow, 
and  if  Wrotham  shows  any  signs  of  wanting  to  get  married, 
you'll  see  that  Master  Sidey  Svde  will  have  a  word  to  say 


A  VISIT  AND  A  CONVERSATION  363 

about  it,  and  stop  it  if  he  can.  I  dare  say  he  won't  stop  it 
for  ever,  VVrotham  being  what  he  is,  but  he's  a  desperate 
gambler,  and  it's  the  sort  of  throw  he'd  maice.  I  saw  every- 
thing you  say  last  night,  and  perhaps  a  little  bit  more.  His 
own  powerful  attractions  are  weapons  he'll  use  for  all  they're 
worth,  and  he'll  use  them  as  he's  used  them  before,  not  to  get 
a  wife  for  himself,  but  to  stop  Wrotham's  getting  one.  He'll 
go  just  far  enough  with  your  poor  little  friend  as  to  get 
between  her  and  Wrotham,  and  when  Wrotham  gets  tired  of 
it  and  goes  off  after  somebody  else,  he'll  go  off  too.  He's  a 
black-hearted  scoundrel,  and  I  wish  I'd  told  him  so  last  night 
instead  of  putting  up  with  his  infernal  impudence  and  pretend- 
ing to  like  it.  I  should  have  done  if  I'd  had  the  pluck  of  a 
mouse " 

Browne  sat  open-mouthed  during  this  tirade,  as  much  on 
account  of  Turner's  unwonted  heat  and  seriousness  as  at  the 
disclosure  of  perfidy  almost  beyond  the  grasp  of  his  simple 
mind.  "  Well,  it  seems  likely  to  be  a  bad  business,"  he  said 
after  a  pause. 

Turner  made  an  impatient  motion  with  his  shoulders  and 
returned  to  his  customary  mood.  "  We've  had  a  nice  peace- 
ful time  since  your  old  woman  planted  herself  down  here,"  he 
said.  "  She's  managed  to  set  everybody  by  the  ears,  I  should 
think  in  the  quickest  time  on  record." 

"  There's  another  row  brewing,"  said  Browne  dejectedly. 

"Is  there?  Well,  I  should  have  thought  she  had  got 
enough  to  occupy  herself  with  at  present.     What  is  it  ?  " 

"The  Dales  came  into  the  Lodge  yesterday.  She  won't 
like  them,  and  I  shall  have  the  deuce  of  a  time  with  her." 

"  What's  wrong  with  them  ?  " 

"Dale  is  a  Radical  and  a  Dissenter  and " 

"  Is  he  ?  Is  he  ?  "  exclaimed  Turner  delightedly.  "  I'll 
go  and  look  him  up  at  once.  When  do  you  think  I  can  go 
and  call,  Browne  ?     I  suppose  they're  all  in  a  mess  now,  but 


364  EXTON  MANOR 

I  should  think  by  Monday By  Jove,  yes,  I'll  go  and 

see  him  on  Monday." 

Browne  stared  at  him.  "  What  do  you  mean  ? "  he  said. 
"  You're  not  a  Radical  or  a  Dissenter.  You  said  the  other 
day  you  would  like  to  duck  all  the  Radicals  in  the  country, 
and  make  all  the  Dissenters  kiss  the  Pope's  toe." 

"  So  I  should.  But  I'd  let  Dale  off.  We  shall  get  some 
fun  out  of  Dale.  Will  he  put  up  a  fight,  do  you  think  ?  Oh, 
I'll  go  and  see  him  on  Monday.  Wouldn't  miss  it  for  any- 
thing." 

"  I  hope  to  goodness  you're  not  going  to  make  mischief, 
Turner.  It'll  be  bad  enough  as  it  is.  He's  not  a  bad  old 
chap,  but  he's  just  the  sort  of  man  that  Lady  Wrotham  will 
hate  to  have  in  the  place ;  not  a  gentleman — at  least,  you 
know,  not  what  she'd  call  a  gentleman,  but  pretty  satisfied 
with  himself  all  the  same,  and  no  idea  of  keeping  himself  quiet." 

Turner  rubbed  his  lean  hands.  "  You  put  new  life  into 
me,  Maximilian,"  he  said.  "  I  should  never  have  thought 
you'd  have  had  the  sense  to  get  a  man  like  that  into  the  place." 

"  I  wish  to  goodness  I  hadn't,"  said  Browne  ruefully. 
"Though  I  couldn't  very  well  help  myself.  Oh,  I  shall 
chuck  it.  I  shall  chuck  the  whole  thing.  I  haven't  had  a 
moment's  peace  since  she  came  here.  If  she  cuts  up  rough 
about  the  Dales  I  shall  chuck  it." 

"And  I  think  you  said  she  would  cut  up  rough,  didn't  you  ? 
Oh,  my  immortal  aunt !  this  is  the  best  thing  that  has  hap- 
pened yet." 

Browne  turned  sulky  and  refused  to  pursue  the  matter  further 
if  his  information  and  his  wrongs  were  to  be  treated  in  that 
fashion,  but  revived  under  the  internal  application  of  a  bottle 
of  vintage  port,  and  a  phenomenal  run  of  luck  at  picquet. 
Turner  maintained  his  spirits  throughout  the  evening  and 
could  hardly  get  through  his  nightly  novel,  so  interrupted  was 
he  by  his  own  fits  of  chuckling. 


CHAFFER  XXIX 

LADY    SYDE    HEARS   AND   ADVISES 

Lady  Syde,  the  widow  of  Major-General  the  Hon.  Sir 
Franklin  Syde,  K.C.B.,  the  late  Lord  Wrotham's  younger 
brother,  was  a  still  handsome  woman,  with  snow-white  hair 
and  a  pair  of  bright  eyes,  which,  when  she  became  animated  in 
conversation,  as  she  often  did,  (lashed  with  something  of  the 
fire  of  youth.  She  must  at  this  time  have  been  nearing  sev- 
enty, and  was  younger  than  Lady  Wrotham  by  some  years. 
Her  white  hair,  and  an  impression  of  fatigue  about  her  face 
and  her  whole  bearing,  which  was  always  present  unless  she 
talked,  when  it  disappeared  entirely,  made  her  look  older.  It 
might  have  seemed  to  an  observer  that  she  had  lived  a  more 
than  usually  active  life  and  had  grown  rather  tired  of  it. 
Lady  Wrotham  had  lived  an  active  life  too,  but  she  had  by  no 
means  grown  tired  of  it,  and  would  never  grow  tired  of  it 
until  she  laid  it  aside  altogether. 

But  when  Lady  Syde  talked  and  her  bright  eyes  flashed 
with  interest,  when  her  face  lost  its  lines  of  fatigue,  and  per- 
haps of  discontent,  and  became  animated,  and  her  voice  took 
on  a  clear  and  decisive  ring,  she  seemed  years  younger  than 
Lady  Wrotham,  who  was  neither  more  nor  less  interested  and 
animated  or  decisive  at  one  time  than  another,  but  lived  on 
one  plane  of  energy,  which,  if  it  had  not  merged  into  the 
weariness  of  creeping  age,  had  never  burnt  so  brightly  as  it 
still  occasionally  did  in  her  sister-in-law. 

Lady  Syde  had  not  always  occupied  the  position  which  she 
now  filled.  When  she  had  married  her  second  husband,  rather 
late  in  life,  she  had  been  the  widow  of  a  Mr.  Moggeridge,  a 
very  rich  business  man,  but  one  of  no  pretensions  to  birth  and 

365 


366  EXTON  MANOR 

very  few  to  social  status.  Her  wealth  at  the  time  of  her  sec- 
ond marriage  had  enabled  Sir  Franklin's  family  to  overlook 
the  vulgarity  of  Mr.  Moggeridge,  who,  after  all,  was  dead,  and 
powerless  to  offend  their  susceptibilities,  and  her  own  clever- 
ness and  energy  of  character  had  gained  her  an  assured  place 
amongst  the  numerous  high  connections  of  that  family.  There 
was  a  faint  tradition  that  Lady  Wrotham  had  inaugurated  the 
new  relationship  by  attempting  to  patronize  Lady  Syde,  and 
had  been  considerably  surprised  at  the  reception  her  attempt  had 
met  with.  But  that  little  passage  of  arms  had  long  since  been 
forgotten,  and  Lady  Wrotham  and  Lady  Syde  met  as  equals 
and  even  as  intimate  friends,  neither  giving  way  to  the  other 
in  the  least  degree,  but  both  respecting  one  another's  opinions 
and  characters. 

The  two  ladies  had  much  to  talk  about  on  this  first  meeting 
after  Lady  Wrotham's  settling  down  at  Exton.  They  dis- 
cussed the  less  important  matters  over  the  luncheon  table  and 
reserved  their  serious  confidences  until  they  were  ensconced 
in  the  library  with  their  coffee. 

"  This  is  a  fine  house,  Sarah,"  said  Lady  Syde,  looking 
round  her  with  eager  observation.  "  You  must  take  me  over 
it.  It  has  always  been  one  of  my  great  pleasures,  as  you 
know,  to  arrange  an  old  house,  or  rearrange  a  house,  or  furnish 
a  house,  and  I  believe  I  should  enjoy  doing  it  now  just  as  well 
as  ever.     Was  there  much  to  do  here  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Lady  Wrotham.  "  Sir  Joseph  Chapman,  who 
has  occupied  it  for  many  years,  has  done  everything  that 
wants  doing.  It  is  not  in  all  respects  as  I  should  have  done 
it  myself,  but  it  does  very  well,  and,  beyond  having  the  few 
things  that  I  care  about  around  me,  I  am  indifferent.  I  have 
other  things  to  employ  my  attention.  They  would  not  in- 
terest you." 

It  was  an  understood  thing  between  them  that  Lady  Syde 
should  not  be  required  to  express  an  interest  which  she  did  not 


LADY  SYDE  HEARS  AND  ADVISES         367 

feel  in  Lady  Wrotham's  schen;ies  for  the  reformation  of  the 
English  Church  and  Nation.  These  topics  were  not  introduced 
into  their  intercourse,  unless  they  had  some  bearing  on  ques- 
tions that  were  discussed  between  them. 

"  I  sincerely  hope  you  have  settled  down  comfortably  here," 
said  Lady  Syde,  "  and  like  your  surroundings.  The  place  it- 
self you  could  hardly  help  liking." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say,"  replied  Lady  Wrotham,  "  that  almost 
from  the  first  moment  I  came  here  I  have  been  involved  in 
one  disagreeable  after  another.  I  have  had  no  time  to  enjoy 
the  beauties  of  the  place,  which  I  should  enjoy  under  other 
circumstances,  for  my  life  has  been  full  of  worries,  owing  to 
the  obstinacy  and  quarrelsomeness  of  the  people  here.  You 
would  hardly  believe,  Henrietta,  what  I  have  had  to  put  up 
with." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  Lady  Syde,  her  eyes  brightening.  "  I 
should  like  to  hear  of  your  experiences.  My  sympathy  will 
be  yours,  even  if  there  is  no  occasion  for  me  to  ofFer  advice." 

"  I  should  like  to  have  your  advice.  It  is  what  I  wish.  I 
have  had  no  one  to  whom  I  could  talk  about  these  matters, 
and  to  tell  you  the  truth  they  are  causing  me  great  anxiety. 
I  came  to  Exton  with  the  full  intention  and  desire  to  live 
quietly  amongst  the  people  here,  and  to  make  friends  with 
them,  consistently,  of  course,  with  the  position  I  hold,  and 
have  a  right  to  expect  to  be  considered." 

"  Naturally,"  said  Lady  Syde.  "  You  would  take  the 
lead,  and  ought  to  take  the  lead.  Nobody  could  object  to 
that." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so ;  for  really,  I  have  met  with 
such  complete  disregard  of  it  from  almost  every  quarter,  that 
I  am  beginning  to  doubt,  myself,  whether  I  am  anybody  to 
speak  of  at  all,  and  whether  I  have  the  slightest  right  to  ex- 
pect my  wishes  to  be  considered  in  a  place  that  has  been  in 
my  husband's  family  for  over  three  hundred  years." 


368  EXTON  MANOR 

"  You  need  have  no  doubt  about  that,  Sarah.  If  I  were  In 
your  position  and  met  with  such  perversity  from  people  who 
ought  to  know  better,  I  should  turn  out  the  whole  lot  of  them 
to-morrow,  and  start  completely  afresh.  But  tell  me  the  chief 
cause  of  your  disturbance." 

"  The  chief  cause  is  the  Vicar  of  the  parish,  who,  I  con- 
sider, obtained  his  position  here  in  the  first  instance  under 
false  pretences.  He  is  the  kind  of  man  who  is  rapidly 
wrecking  the  Church,  preaching  doctrines  and  carrying  on 
generally  in  a  way  that  if  it  is  not  stopped  will  bring  this 
country  under  the  yoke  of  Rome  within  another  generation. 
You  know  what  sacrifices  I  have  made  to  stop  this  creeping 
blight,  and  I  say  that  it  is  monstrous,  intolerable,  that  in  the 
very  place  where  I  make  my  home,  I  should  have  to  submit 
to  it  from  a  man  who  is  bound  by  all  honesty  and  decent  feel- 
ing— if  not  by  the  actual  law — ^to — to  do  as  I  tell  him." 

"  Oh,  but  surely,  Sarah,  if  he  refuses  to  behave  as  you  wish 
him  to  behave,  you  can  get  rid  of  him.  It  would  indeed  be 
monstrous  if  you  could  not.  I  am  not  so  well  up  in  these 
matters  as  you  are.  They  are  not  in  my  line,  as  you  know, 
and  I  do  not  mix  myself  up  in  them.  But  of  that  I  have  no 
doubt  whatever.  It  would  be  absurd  to  think  that  a  mere 
clergyman,  tiresome  as  I  know  from  my  own  experience  they 
can  be,  could  set  up  his  opinion  against  yours  in  a  place  where 
you  are,  or  should  be,  paramount.  No  law  could  give  him 
the  right  to  do  that.  The  country  would  be  ruined  in  no 
time." 

"  Unfortunately,  the  law  does  give  him  the  right.  Un- 
just as  it  is,  the  law  is  on  his  side,  and  I  am  unable  to 
deny  it." 

"  Then  the  law  ought  to  be  altered.  Surely  it  would  be 
altered  if  it  was  realized  that  it  countenanced  such  an 
absurdity.  One  could  hardly  expect  a  Radical  Government 
to  do  it,  perhaps,  as  their  enmity  to  the  Church  and  the  upper 


LADY  SYDE  HEARS  AND  ADVISES         369 

classes  is  notorious.  But  fortunately  we  have  a  Conservative 
Government  in  power,  and  something  ought  to  be  done. 
What  is  the  good  of  talking  about  the  food  of  the  lower 
classes — not  that  I  have  any  objection  to  the  food  of  the 
lower  classes ;  it  is  a  very  good  thing  in  its  proper  place — 
while  the  country  is  going  to  ruin  in  this  way  ?  Something 
ought  to  be  done  about  it,  and  if  I  were  you,  Sarah,  I  should 
mention  it  to  the  Prime  Minister.  He  is  amiability  itself, 
and  burns  with  indignation,  besides,  at  any  hint  of  injustice." 

"  I  have  no  hope  of  anything  really  satisfactory  being  done 
by  the  Government,"  said  Lady  Wrotham.  "  Not  even  the 
League,  influential  as  it  is,  has  been  able  to  move  them. 
They  have  done  away  with  a  few  minor  injustices,  but  the 
great  Church  questions  they  will  not  touch." 

"  Very  well  then,  why  not  apply  to  the  bishop  ?  I  have  no 
great  opinion  of  bishops,  as  a  general  rule  ;  their  aprons  al- 
ways strike  me  as  being  a  little  absurd,  and  they  have  usually 
risen  from  the  ranks.  But  the  bishop  of  Archester  is  a  gen- 
tleman. I  have  met  him  more  than  once,  a  most  delightful 
man,  quite  of  the  old  courtly  type.  He  is  at  the  head  of  this 
Division,  is  he  not  ?  " 

*'Yes.  And  I  have  applied  to  him,  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
without  success.  I  even  asked  him  and  Lady  Susan  to  stay 
here  and  discuss  the  matter  quietly  after  he  had  seen  for  him- 
self what  goes  on.  And,  would  you  believe  it  ?  I  simply 
received  a  note  from  his  chaplain  saying  that  his  lordship 
saw  nothing  to  complain  about  to  the  Vicar  of  this  parish 
in  what  I  had  told  him,  except  in  one  matter  on  which  he 
would  communicate  to  the  Vicar  himself.     And  that  was  all." 

"  Nothing  about  your  invitation  ?  " 

"  Simply  that  his  lordship  had  too  many  engagements  to 
enable  him  to  accept  it." 

"  Well,  I  should  never  have  thought  he  would  have  be- 
haved like  that — and  to  you.     If  he  had  not  been  who  he 


370 


EXTON  MANOR 


is — I  mean  a  brother  of  Lord  Pevensey — one  might  almost 
have  said  it  was  presumptuous.  But  surely  there  must  be 
something  left  for  you  to  do,  Sarah." 

Lady  Wrotham's  face  took  on  a  sterner  and  not  a  pleasant 
expression.  *'  Mr.  Prentice  shall  go,"  she  said.  "  I  will  use 
every  effort  to  dislodge  him.  I  will  not  live  in  the  midst  of  a 
community  given  over  to  such  errors  as  he  practises  and 
teaches." 

"  I  think  he  should  go.  I  think  he  should  be  made  to  go. 
Has  he  a  wife  and  family  ? " 

"  He  has  a  wife  and,  I  believe,  one  son." 

"  I  suppose  he  can  get  some  other  situation.  Do  they  sup- 
port him  in  his  rebellion  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  the  son.  He  does  not 
live  here.  But  Mrs.  Prentice  has  caused  me  almost  more 
annoyance  than  her  husband.  I  did  hope  at  one  time  that 
she  saw  how  misguided  he  was  and  would  be  of  use  to  me  in 
influencing  him  for  his  good.  She  certainly  led  me  to  think 
so,  in  a  way  that  I  can  only  think  now  was  hypocritical.  I 
gave  her  full  credit  for  being  sincere  and  truthful,  and  even 
made  a  companion  of  her,  though  she  is  not  a  woman  of  any 
breeding.  Apparently  it  was  simply  that  that  she  wanted,  for 
when  I  took  her  to  task  for  something  I  was  displeased  about 
in  her  conduct,  she  threw  off  the  mask  at  once,  and  has  ever 
since  opposed  me  in  the  most  violent  way  in  everything  I  try 
to  do  for  the  good  of  the  people.  She  goes  about  amongst 
them  and  tries  to  dissuade  them  from  attending  some  meetings 
that  I  have  got  up  for  their  benefit.  Fortunately  the  people 
do  not  like  her  and  she  has  little  influence  over  them. 
They  laugh  at  her  efforts  to  annoy  me  and  do  not  respond  to 
them.  But  fancy,  Henrietta,  my  having  to  put  up  with  that 
sort  of  thing  from  a  woman  of  her  standing  !  When  I  pass 
her  out  driving  she  pokes  her  nose  in  the  air  and  pretends  not 
to  see  me." 


LADY  SYDE  HEARS  AND  ADVISES         371 

"  Oh,  it  is  outrageous.  Certainly  she  must  be  sent  away. 
There  is  not  a  doubt  of  it.  What  was  the  thing  that  you  had 
to  rebuke  her  for,  first  of  all  ?  " 

"  Well,  that  is  another  affair  altogether,  but  it  has  given, 
and  is  still  giving  me  infinite  annoyance.  There  is  a  lady  liv- 
ing here  called  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  She  has  a  pretty  cottage, 
practically  in  the  park  itself — you  can  see  it  from  the  upper 
windows — a  fair-sized  house  really,  with  a  large  garden. 
Her  father  was  a  squatter  in  Queensland — a  gentleman — 
and  she  was  born  and  brought  up  there.  Her  husband 
was  one  of  the  Warwickshire  RedclifFes.  He  was  on  the 
staff  of  the  Governor  of  Queensland  while  we  were  in  South 
Australia,  and  he  married  first  of  all  her  sister,  who  died 
within  a  year,  and  then  her,  and  settled  out  there.  I  remem- 
ber the  circumstances  well,  and  thought  everybody  who  knew 
her  would  have  known  of  them  as  a  matter  of  course." 

"  She  was  the  deceased  wife's  sister." 

"  Yes.  Of  course  you  know  that  there  is  no  objection  to 
that  in  the  Colonies.  They  are  more  advanced  there  than  we 
are,  and  delight  in  passing  laws  that  we  should  not  pass,  very 
often  out  of  mere  bravado.  Their  politicians  are  of  quite  a  dif- 
ferent class  to  ours.  We  had  considerable  difficulty  with  some 
of  them  during  our  term  in  Australia  ;  in  fact,  we  were  given  to 
understand,  in  rather  an  impertinent  way  through  the  news- 
papers, that  our  province  was  simply  to  spend  our  allowance, 
and  a  good  deal  more  besides,  in  entertaining  them,  and  leave 
them  to  manage  their  own  business  in  their  own  way. 
One  paper  actually  went  so  far  as  to  say  that  we  ought  to 
feel  ourselves  amply  rewarded  for  all  we  did  by  having  the 
National  Anthem  played  whenever  we  made  a  public  appear- 
ance." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lady  Syde,  who  had  heard  all  this  before,  and 
wanted  to  hear  something  else.  "  But  there  was,  at  any  rate, 
nothing  wrong  about  this  marriage  under  the  circumstances." 


372  EXTON  MANOR 

"  No.  And  if  I  had  come  down  here  and  found  Mrs.  Red- 
cliffe  to  be  a  nice  woman  in  every  other  way,  as  I  have  no 
reason  to  believe  she  is  not,  I  should  not  have  let  it  make  the 
slightest  difference  in  my  treatment  of  her.  But  what  did  not 
enter  into  my  calculations  was  that  the  very  fact  of  her  being 
the  deceased  wife's  sister  was  not  known  here.  I  have  not  yet 
quite  gathered  how  she  can  have  succeeded  in  keeping  it  to 
herself,  as  I  have  not  had  the  opportunity  of  speaking  to  he 
about  it,  but  that  does  not  very  much  matter.  She  had  suc- 
ceeded in  keeping  it  to  herself,  and  I  do  not  in  the  least  blame 
her  for  having  done  so  if  she  could,  as,  of  course,  her 
daughter's  position  in  this  country,  if  not  her  own,  is  an  invid- 
ious one." 

"  Yes,  there  has  been  an  attempt  to  alter  the  law  in  that 
respect.     It  ought  to  be  altered,  I  think." 

"  Perhaps  so,  to  that  extent.  At  any  rate,  the  last  thing  I 
should  have  wished  would  be  to  spread  her  story.  But  unfor- 
tunately, before  I  knew  that  it  had  been  kept  secret,  I  inad- 
vertently let  it  out  to  this  Mrs.  Prentice,  the  Vicar's  wife." 

"  And  she  spread  it.  But  did  you  not  tell  her  she  was  not 
to  do  so  ?  " 

''  I  did,  most  emphatically.  But  it  was  all  over  the  place  in 
no  time.  She  has  always  declared  that  she  said  nothing  to 
anybody  but  her  husband,  who,  I  hear,  and  I  will  give  him 
that  credit,  has  behaved  well  about  it,  and  would  not  have 
spread  it.  Mrs.  Prentice  undoubtedly  did  so,  and  I  have  dis- 
covered that  she  is  a  peculiarly  spiteful  woman  and  is  only  too 
glad  to  have  an  excuse  to  persecute  this  poor  lady.  For  I 
own,  Henrietta,  that  I  am  very  sorry  for  her  and  for  what  has 
happened." 

"  At  all  events,  you  are  not  to  blame,  Sarah.  And  you 
could  very  easily  make  amends  to  her  if  you  wished  to  do  so. 
I  am  strongly  in  favour  of  a  quiet  life  all  round  myself;  I 
have  had  too  much  experience  of  the  other  kind  of  life.     And 


LADY  SYDE  HEARS  AND  ADVISES         373 

I  do  recommend  you,  if  you  can  do  so  conveniently,  to  take 
steps." 

''  My  dear  Henrietta,  I  should  have  done  so  long  ago.  But 
the  fact  is  that  the  girl,  Mrs.  RedclifFe's  daughter,  is  not  what 
her  mother  seems  to  be.  She  has  been  violent  about  it  all 
through.  That  I  could  forgive,  as,  of  course,  she  would  take 
her  mother's  part,  and  I  had  actually  overlooked  her  saying 
something  abominably  rude  about  me  which  came  to  my  ears, 
and  was  prepared  to  go  and  call  on  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  when  I  ac- 
cidentally overheard  her  repeating  her  offence  in  a  way  that  I 
could  not  possibly  overlook,  and  actually  while  she  was  being 
told  that  I  intended  to  go  out  of  my  way  to  call  on  her  mother, 
who  had  not  called  on  me,  and  try  to  put  matters  on  a  better 
footing.  It  was  the  extreme  of  ungraciousness,  and,  as  I  s?y, 
it  is  quite  impossible  to  overlook  it.  And  there  it  is.  These 
people  are  living  in  my  very  garden,  as  you  might  say,  for  it  is 
only  just  across  the  park,  and  I  have  the  unpleasantness  of 
meeting  them  about  the  place,  and  might  at  any  time  meet 
them  in  some  one  else's  house,  and  have  them  turning  up  their 
noses  at  me.  At  least  the  mother  would  behave  properly — I 
have  nothing  against  her  at  all,  except  that  she  might  bring  the 
girl  to  book  and  make  her  apologize  to  me  for  her  behaviour — 
but  the  girl  actually  does  turn  up  her  nose  at  me  when  I  pass 
her,  and  in  the  most  offensive  way.  At  least,  she  looks  me 
straight  in  the  face,  and  has  not  the  manners  even  to  pass  me 
without  notice." 

"  Of  course  that  must  be  highly  unpleasant,  and  you  ought 
not  to  be  subjected  to  it.     You  were  not  to  blame  in  the  first 

place,  and  besides Well,  Sarah,  I  think  those  people 

ought  to  go." 

"  It  has  annoyed  me  more  than  I  can  tell  you.  And  it  is 
not  only  the  RedclifFes  themselves.  Mrs.  RedclifFe  has  ap- 
parently gained  the  esteem  of  everybody  living  here.  I  have 
not  the  slightest  wish  to  be  unfair  to  her,  and  from  what  has 


374  EXTON  MANOR 

been  told  me  I  will  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  I  have  no  doubt 
she  deserves  it.  But  it  is  a  little  too  much  when  all  her 
friends  living  in  and  about  the  village  should  visit  the  annoy- 
ance caused  to  her  by  Mrs.  Prentice  on  me." 

"  But  surely  they  have  not  done  that  ? " 

"  Unfortunately  it  is  so.  Mrs.  RedclifFe  is  apparently  such 
a  general  favourite  that  her  friends  are  unable  to  show  their 
appreciation  of  her  except  by — well,  the  word  is  rather  a 
curious  one  to  use  about  myself,  but  that  is  what  it  comes  to — 
by  boycotting  me." 

"  Oh,  Sarah  !  but  that  is  a  gross  piece  of  impertinence." 

"  I  need  not  say  that  I  can  do  very  well  without  them. 
But  I  was  certainly  prepared  to  treat  all  the  better  class  of 
people  here  with  consideration  and — and  hospitality,  and  it 
distresses  me  to  find  that — that " 

Lady  Wrotham  did  not  finish  her  sentence,  which  might 
have  ended,  '*  That  they  can  do  very  well  without  me." 

"  It  seems  the  height  of  ingratitude,"  said  Lady  Syde. 
'^  What  other  people  are  there  in  the  place  ?  " 

"  There  is  a  Captain  Turner,  a  curious  man,  who  lives  d 
sort  of  hermit's  life  in  a  house  in  the  woods  behind  here  and 
breeds  trouts.  Mr.  Browne,  the  agent,  brought  him  to  see 
me,  at  my  request.  Mrs.  Prentice  happened  to  be  here  at  the 
time  and  the  unfortunate  subject  of  Mrs.  RedclifFe  came  up. 
He  was  up  in  arms  at  once,  and  darted  out  of  the  house,  and, 
as  I  heard  afterwards,  straight  up  to  Mrs.  RedclifFe's  house,  to 
assure  her,  I  suppose,  that  he  was  on  her  side,  whatever  line 
mischievous  and  quite  unimportant  people  like  myself  chose  to 
take — although,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  had  actually  rebuked 
Mrs.  Prentice  in  his  presence  for  letting  out  what  I  had  told 
her." 

"  But  he  lives  a  hermit's  life,  Sarah,  as  you  say  ;  he  would 
not  worry  you  much." 

"  Unfortunately  the  matter  did   not  rest  there.     I  had  ar- 


LADY  SYDE  HEARS  AND  ADVISES         375 

ranged  to  go  up  and  see  his  house  and  his  fish-hatching  appa- 
ratus, and  thinking  that  he  was  perhaps  rather  eccentric  and 
not  quite  accountable  for  his  actions,  I  wrote  him  a  note  a  few 
days  ago  and  said  I  should  like  to  drive  up  that  afternoon. 
He  actually  had  the  innpertinence  to  write  back  that  he  ex- 
pected Mrs.  and  Miss  RedcIifFe  to  tea  that  afternoon  and  that 
perhaps  under  the  circumstances  I  should  not  care  to  come." 

"  Do  you  think  it  was  meant  for  impertinence  ?  You 
would  not  have  cared  to  meet  them." 

"  My  dear  Henrietta,  there  was  no  suggestion  of  my  going 
on  another  day  ;  and  I  learnt  through  Riddell,  who  happened 
to  know,  that  the  RedclifFes  had  not  gone  to  tea  there  that 
afternoon  and  had  never  been  asked  to  go  to  tea  there.  It 
was  as  good  as  telling  me — me^  Henrietta — that  he  did  not 
wish  to  see  me." 

"  Oh,  but  that  is  quite  unallowable,  Sarah ;  he  must  go." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  he  has  a  long  lease  of  his  house.  These 
long  leases  ought  not  to  be  granted.  It  simply  gives  a  person 
who  is  not  w«Il  disposed  to  a  landowner  the  power  of  annoy- 
ance, without  the  possibility  of  its  being  stopped.  Then  there 
is  Mrs.  Patrick  O'Keefe — I  am  telling  you  everything,  Hen- 
rietta, because  it  is  a  relief  to  me  to  do  so.  She  is  a  young 
widow  who  settled  here  a  short  time  ago,  after  her  husband 
was  killed  in  the  war.  He  was  a  brother  of  Lord  Ballyshan- 
non.  She  was  away  when  I  first  came  here,  and  by  the  time 
she  returned  this  unpleasantness  had  reached  its  height.  She 
came  to  see  me  and  I  took  to  her  at  once.  I  thought, '  Now 
at  last  I  have  some  one  I  shall  always  be  pleased  to  see,'  and 
I  was  quite  cheered,  for  I  do  like  to  see  my  fellow  beings  oc- 
casionally, Henrietta,  and  I  like  to  have  bright  and  good-look- 
ing young  people  around  me.  I  think  she  took  to  me  too ;  I 
am  sure  she  did,  and  we  put  our  heads  together,  my  old  head 
and  her  young  head,  to  see  if  something  could  be  done  to 
make  up  to  Mrs.  RedcIifFe  for  what  had  happened,  as  I  told 


376  EXTON  MANOR 

you.  It  was  to  her  that  I  heard  the  Redcliffe  girl  talking  so 
rudely  about  me." 

"  But  she  did  not  encourage  her  ?  " 

"  No,  I  think  not.  I  believe  not.  I  think  she  would  have 
tried  to  bring  her  to  a  better  state  of  mind.  But  she  told  me, 
that,  right  or  wrong,  she  was  on  this  girl's  side,  and  that  for 
the  present  she — well,  practically  declined  the  honour  of  my 
acquaintance." 

"  Oh,  but,  Sarah,  that  cannot  be  put  up  with  for  a  moment. 
However  charming  she  may  be,  you  cannot  have  her  behaving 
hke  that  to  you.  I  think  she  ought  to  go.  Certainly,  I  think 
she  ought  to  go." 

"  She  is  just  the  sort  of  woman,  or  girl,  for  she  is  very 
young,  I  should  have  chosen  to  be  in  the  place.  She  has  a 
bright  little  house  in  the  village.  I  pass  it  frequently,  but 
have  never  been  inside  it.  She  has  pretty  window  curtains, 
and  I  should  think  everything  very  nice.  I  heard  her  laugh- 
ing in  the  garden  as  I  drove  by  the  other  day.  Perhaps  she  is 
right  to  be  unflinching  in  support  of  her  friends  when  they  are 
in  trouble,  as  you  might  say.  I  was  annoyed  with  her  at  the 
time,  and  showed  it;  but  I  am  not  annoyed  now.  I  think 
she  regretted  what  she  considered  the  necessity  of  breaking 
with  me,  and  she  did  not  do  it  in  a  disagreeable  way  at  all. 
Still,  I  see  no  chance  of  things  coming  right  at  present,  and  I 
would  rather  she  went  somewhere  else  where  I  should  not  be 
reminded  of  the  pleasure  I  might  have  had  by  her  coming  in 
and  out  here,  as  I  hoped  she  would  have  done." 

"  It  must  be  very  disturbing  to  you,  Sarah.  I  can  quite 
see  that,  and  I  am  sorry  it  has  happened.  But  I  should  think 
she  would  see  the  advisability  of  going.  What  about  your 
agent,  whom  you  mentioned  just  now  ?  Cannot  he  do  some- 
thing to  bring  the  people  to  their  senses  ?  " 

"  I  am  annoyed  with  Mr.  Browne  for  many  reasons.  He 
also  thinks  it  incumbent  on  him  to  champion  Mrs,  RedclifFe's 


LADY  SYDE  HEARS  AND  ADVISES         377 

part,  but  there  are  other  things.  I  need  not  go  into  all  of 
them,  but  he  has  actually  let  the  Lodge,  a  sort  of  dower 
house  to  the  Abbey,  which  has  been  empty  some  years,  to  a 
North-country  business  man  with  a  large  family,  who  I  hear 
has  no  sort  of  pretensions  to  being  a  gentleman,  and  is  indeed 
a  Radical  and — would  you  believe  it? — a  Dissenter;  and  he 
has  done  that  since  I  have  been  here  and  without  consulting 
me  about  it  by  so  much  as  a  word." 

"  Oh,  but,  Sarah,  that  is  an  outrage.  At  any  rate,  there 
will  be  no  difficulty  in  getting  rid  of  him.  I  should  pack  him 
off  to-morrow." 

"  The  galling  part  of  it  is,  Henrietta — I  can  say  this  to  you 
— that  George  has  these  matters  entirely  at  his  own  disposal. 
I  have  this  house  and  gardens  and  so  on,  but  I  have  no  actual 
status  in  the  management  of  the  property.  With  a  dutiful 
son  I  should  not  be  made  to  feel  that  I  am  nobody  in  such 
matters  as  these.  My  wishes  would  be  deferred  to,  and  in  a 
question  that  so  nearly  concerned  my  own  comfort  as  a  tenant 
for  the  most  important  house  in  the  place  next  to  this,  I 
should  be  empowered  to  take  my  own  steps.  But  you  know 
what  George  is — flighty  and  irresponsible  and  troublesome 
since  his  boyhood.  He  was  always  difficult  to  guide,  and 
with  his  extravagance  and  wildness  he  has  given  us  endless 
trouble." 

"  He  is  good-hearted,"  said  Lady  Syde,  "  and  generous.  I 
think  you  were  too  harsh  to  him  when  he  was  a  child.  At 
any  rate,  he  is  not  utterly  selfish  and  grasping — like " 

*'  Like  Laurence,"  said  Lady  Wrotham,  who  was  not 
pleased  with  the  criticism.  "  No,  thank  heaven,  he  is  not 
like  Laurence.  And  Laurence  is  what  he  is  owing  to  your 
spoiling  him  when  he  was  a  boy  and  giving  him  everything 
be  asked  for." 

Lady  Syde  did  not  accept  the  challenge.  "  It  may  be  so,** 
she  said  quietly.     "  I  fear  that  it  is  partly  so.     But  George  is 


378  EXTON  MANOR 

not  spoilt  in  that  way.  It  is  simply  his  wildness  that  I  think 
is  the  outcome  of  your  severity,  and  it  will  tone  down  as  he 
becomes  older.  Otherwise  he  is  charming.  Surely  he  will 
bow  to  your  wishes  in  these  matters/' 

*'  He  has  not  done  so  with  regard  to  these  Dales.  I  own 
that  the  money  is  an  important  factor  at  present,  and  the  man 
is  a  good  tenant  as  far  as  money  goes.  But  money  is  not 
everything.  However,  the  mischief  is  done  now  and  I  must 
make  the  best  of  it.  Only  how  am  I  to  exercise  an  influence 
in  the  place  if  half  the  people  insist  upon  quarrelling  with  me, 
and  the  new  people  who  are  brought  into  it  are  such  as  it  is 
impossible  for  me  to  know  ?  " 

"You  may  find  them  quite  nice  people." 

"I  have  very  little  hope  of  it.  But  we  will  see.  You 
and  I  will  call  at  the  Lodge — let  us  say  on  Monday ;  they 
ought  to  be  ready  to  receive  us  by  that  time — and  see  for 
ourselves.  I  think  you  will  agree,  Henrietta,  that  I  am  most 
unfortunately  situated  here,  although  I  have  every  desire  to 
be  kind  and  charitable  to  those  around  me.  Why,  even  the 
farmers  and  labouring  people  take  sides  against  me,  some  of 
them,  on  both  these  questions,  although  others,  I  am  afraid 
not  the  most  satisfactory,  try  to  keep  in  favour  with  me  for 
what  they  can  get.  Some  of  the  labouring  men  actually  omit 
to  touch  their  hats  when  I  drive  past  them." 

"  Oh,  but  they  can  be  got  rid  of  without  the  slightest 
difficulty.  I  should  have  not  the  smallest  compunction  in 
dealing  with  them  as  they  deserve.  Yes,  Sarah,  I  do  think 
you  are  badly  treated,  and  I  shall  not  think  so  well  of  George 
as  I  have  done,  if  he  refuses  to  set  these  things  right,  as 
far  as  he  can.  Where  is  George,  by  the  bye  ?  Is  he  at 
Hurstbury  ? " 

"  No,  he  is  here,  at  present.  He  came  yesterday,  though 
of  course  I  have  seen  next  to  nothing  of  him.  He  dined  at 
the  Ferrabys  last  night,  and  is  yachting  with  them  to-day." 


LADY  SYDE  HEARS  AND  ADVISES         379 

"  The  Ferrabys  !  Those  are  Laurence's  friends.  Do  they 
live  near  here  ?  " 

"  They  rent  this  shooting  and  Forest  Lodge,  the  house  you 
passed  half-way  between  here  and  the  station.  They  have 
brought  a  large  party  down  for  Whitsuntide,  and  I  believe 
Laurence  is  one  of  the  party.  I  hope  he  will  not  show  his 
face  here.  I  have  no  wish  to  see  him,  now  or  ever.  I  con- 
sider his  influence  over  George  is  disastrous,  and  all  the 
terrible  waste  of  money  that  has  been  going  on  ever  since 
George's  boyhood  I  put  down  to  him." 

**  You  cannot  say  anything  harsh  about  Laurence  that  I  do 
not  endorse,"  said  Lady  Syde.  "  Money  disappears  in  an 
incredible  way  in  his  hands,  and  it  was  the  same  with  his 
dear  father  before  him.  Franklin  was  a  kind  husband.  I 
never  had  a  harsh  word  from  him  and  his  manners  were 
perfect,  but — well  you  know  my  history,  Sarah.  I  was  a  rich 
woman,  you  might  say  a  very  rich  woman  when  I  married, 
and  I  am  now  poor.  I  have  all  I  want,  of  course,  but  I  am 
poor." 

*'  I  hope  you  are  not  allowing  Laurence  to  sponge  on  you 
any  farther.  He  must  be  responsible  for  a  great  deal  of  the 
reduction  in  your  income." 

"  He  has  his  allowance.  Most  young  men — not  that  he  is 
very  young  now,  but  he  behaves  as  if  he  were — would  con- 
sider a  thousand  a  year  a  very  handsome  allowance.  It  seems 
to  go  no  way  with  him  and  he  is  always  asking  for  money.  I 
have  been  obliged  to  refuse  definitely  to  do  any  more  for  him, 
or  I  should  be  reduced  to  beggary.  And  he  is  not  in  the 
least  grateful  for  what  I  have  done.  He  never  comes  near 
me  now  I  am  of  no  further  use  to  him  in  that  way." 

"  I  suppose  you  will  leave  him  your  money  ? " 

Lady  Syde  did  not  show  surprise  at  this  very  plain  ques- 
tion, which  was  of  a  kind  these  two  ladies  were  accustomed 
to  put  to  one  another.     "  I  shall  leave  him  twenty  thousand 


38o  EXTON  MANOR 

pounds,"  she  said,  "  and  not  a  penny  more.  I  have  told  him 
that,  and  I  dare  say  he  has  already  anticipated  it.  The  rest  I 
shall  leave  to  Richard  Baldock,  my  nephew.  I  did  him  a 
great  injustice  when  he  was  a  boy,  owing,  I  know  now,  to 
Laurence's  duplicity  j  but  he  has  made  a  career  for  himself, 
and  I  am  happy  to  think  he  has  not  suffered  from  my  injustice 
to  him." 

"  It  was  he  who  married  Harry  Ventrey's  heiress,  was  it 
not  ?  " 

"  Yes.  But  she  was  not  much  of  an  heiress.  She  had 
Beechhurst  Hall,  a  beautiful  place  in  the  forest,  but  they  would 
not  have  been  able  to  live  there  if  it  had  not  been  for  Richard's 
own  success  in  his  business.  They  are  a  charming  couple,  and 
when  I  go  to  stay  with  them  I  see  what  home  life,  which  I 
have  never  had  myself,  can  be.  There  is  no  struggling  for 
money  or  for  place.  They  are  contented  with  their  beautiful 
home,  and  their  children  and  their  work,  and  themselves.  It 
is  refreshing.  A  happy  home  life,  after  all,  is  the  best  thing 
the  world  has  to  offer." 

"  It  is  a  very  different  kind  of  life,  at  any  rate,  to  that  led  by 
such  people  as  the  Ferrabys.  I  have  moved  all  my  life  in  what 
I  suppose  would  be  acknowledged  to  be  the  best  society,  but 
really  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  present  day  are  to  me 
positively  shocking.  Here  are  these  people  the  Ferrabys,  they 
arc  rich,  therefore  they  are  all-important.  There  are  great  peo- 
ple, very  great  people,  whom  I  need  not  further  particularize, 
who  would  certainly  prefer  to  accept  hospitality  from  people 
like  the  Ferrabys,  than  from — me.  They  lead  society  now, 
when  a  generation  ago  they  would  only  have  been  on  the  out- 
skirts of  it.  Received,  yes,  perhaps  so,  for  the  Ferrabys  are 
gentle-people,  though  all  of  their  set  are  certainly  not  ;  but 
never  presuming  to  take  a  leading  part.  And  what  a  change  ! 
Look  at  the  people  the  Ferrabys  have  in  their  house  now. 
Husbands  without  their  wives  and  wives  without  their  hus- 


LADY  SYDE  HEARS  AND  ADVISES         381 

bands.  Would  that  have  been  done  a  generation  ago  ?  Cer- 
tainly not,  in  the  matter-of-course  way  in  which  it  is  done  now. 
There  is  that  Mrs.  Lancing  there.  A  disreputable  woman  I 
call  her.  She  divorced  her  husband,  but  from  all  I  hear  he 
might  just  as  well  have  divorced  her,  and  her  next  husband  will 
probably  do  so.  In  my  younger  days  we  should  have  turned 
our  backs  on  such  a  woman.  Now  we  have  to  meet  her 
everywhere,  unless  we  keep  quietly  to  ourselves  and  do  not  go 
about  amongst  the  people  to  whom  we  belong.  /  have  always 
taken  a  stand  and  kept  my  house  clear  of  all  doubtful  people, 
and  what  has  been  my  reward  ?  The  people  whom  I  had  a 
right  to  expect  to  come  to  me  left  off  coming,  because  I  could 
not  amuse  them.  Amuse  them !  What  is  all  this  modern 
folly  about  amusement  ?  In  my  day  we  thought  nothing  of  it. 
We  did  our  duty  as  great  people,  entertained  each  other  with 
dignity  and  sometimes  with  splendour,  and  that  was  enough. 
Henrietta,  when  I  see  the  English  aristocracy  running  wild 
after  amusement  as  they  are  doing  to-day,  I  tremble  for  my 
order." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  that  it  does  the  English  aristocracy 
any  harm  to  be  woken  up  by  amusing  people,  who  don't  orig- 
inally belong  to  it,"  said  Lady  Syde.  "  But  I  do  know  that 
after  a  time  a  life  of  amusement  becomes  very  wearing.  You 
and  I  are  beyond  the  age  at  which  we  are  likely  to  care  about 
it,  and  we  want  to  live  quietly  and  be  left  alone.  But  what 
are  the  Ferrabys  doing  down  here  ?  They  have  a  very  fine 
house  in  London.  I  thought  they  had  a  big  country  place 
somewhere." 

"  Of  course  you  would  suppose  so.  But  nowadays,  it 
seems  quite  enough  to  have  a  big  house  in  London.  Mr.  Fer- 
raby  has  the  shooting  here.  I  can't  say  I  like  that.  He  has 
the  right  to  shoot  all  round  this  very  house  if  he  wants  to. 
But  I  say  nothing  about  that.  It  can't  be  helped  at  present. 
And  he  has  Forest  Lodge,  quite  a  small  house,  with  it.     It  is 


382  EXTON  MANOR 

a  good  thing  it  is  no  bigger.  As  it  is  it  is  filled  from  time  to 
time  with  noisy  smart  people,  as  they  call  themselves,  whom  I 
don't  want  about  the  place.  I  feel  that  it  takes  away  from  my 
dignity — I  can  say  this  to  you,  Henrietta.  Country  people 
have  no  discrimination ;  they  see  me  living  a  quiet  life  here, 
and  they  see  all  sorts  of  well-known  people  going  to  and  fro  at 
the  Forest  Lodge,  and  they  draw  absurd  comparisons  in  their 
minds." 

"  Well,"  said  Lady  Syde,  "  I  think  the  Ferrabys  ought  to 
have  notice  given  them,  and  the  house  should  be  let  to  some- 
body you  would  like  to  have  on  the  place.  I  do  think  that 
strongly.  This  is  your  house  now,  and  you  ought  to  have 
everything  done  for  your  comfort  that  it  is  possible  to  do." 

**  I  am  glad  you  sympathize  with  me,  Henrietta.  I  feel  that 
things  are  not  going  well,  and  it  has  been  a  great  relief  to  talk 
them  over  with  you.  I  shall  have  a  serious  conversation  with 
George  about  all  the  matters  I  have  mentioned  to  you,  and  I 
hope  he  will  take  some  steps.  Now  I  think  we  had  better  get 
ready  for  our  drive." 

They  drove  out  presently  up  the  hill  and  across  the  open 
heath  lands.  Lady  Syde  broke  out  into  open  protestations  of 
delight  as  they  passed  the  White  House.  "  That  is  just  such 
a  place  as  I  should  like  to  settle  down  in,"  she  said,  *'  and  get 
rid  of  all  the  bothers  and  responsibilities  of  a  big  house." 

"  Well,  if  Mrs.  Redcliffe  goes,"  said  Lady  Wrotham,  "  as 
I  hope  she  will  be  induced  to  do,  it  will  be  vacant ;  and  I 
need  not  say,  Henrietta,  if  you  would  really  care  to  live  in 
such  a  small  place,  what  pleasure  it  would  give  me  to  have  you 
there." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

VISITS 

Turner  bicycled  down  to  the  village  and  up  to  the  Lodge 
on  Monday  afternoon  to  visit  his  new  neighbours.  He  leaned 
his  bicycle  up  against  the  porch,  and  stooped  down  to  take 
off  his  trouser  clips.  The  front  door  was  wide  open,  and 
Mr.  Dale,  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  was  superintending  the  placing 
of  a  pair  of  cows'  horns  over  each  of  the  doorways.  This 
was  the  climax  of  the  decoration  of  the  hall,  which  was  now 
complete.  He  came  to  the  door  to  flick  off  the  ash  from  his 
cigar,  and  saw  Turner.  "  Now,  my  man,"  he  said,  with 
decision,  but  with  perfect  good  humour,  "you  just  get  on 
your  bicycle  and  ride  off  again,  unless  you'd  like  a  glass  of 
beer,  which  you're  welcome  to,  before  you  go.  You're  the 
fifth  we've  had  to-day.  We're  going  ro  deal  with  the  shops 
in  Exton  as  long  as  they  satisfy  us,  and  we  shan't  require  any- 
thing from  outside." 

No  form  of  welcome  could  have  given  Turner  greater 
pleasure.  His  eyes  glistened  as  he  looked  at  Mr.  Dale,  stand- 
ing solidly  on  the  step  in  front  of  him. 

"  They're  capital  shops  in  Exton,"  he  said.  "  I  hope 
they'll  satisfy  you." 

"Thank  you;  I  hope  they  will.  I  suppose  you've  come 
from  Riverton.  I  don't  mind  your  coming,  you  know.  I 
like  enterprise  in  business.  I've  had  to  do  that  sort  of  thing 
myself,  or  I  shouldn't  be  where  I  am  now.  But  at  present  I 
don't  want  you ;  when  I  do  I'll  let  you  know." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Turner,  "  but  I  don't  come  from 
Riverton." 


384  EXTON  MANOR 

'*  Well,  I  don't  care  where  you  come  from,  as  long  as  you 
get  back  there  as  quickly  as  possible." 

"  Very  well.  You  won't  mind  my  first  leaving  a  card  on 
Mrs.  Dale,  will  you  ?     Out  of  politeness,  you  know." 

"  Eh,  what !  "  exclaimed  Mr,  Dale,  now  bringing  his  eyes, 
which  had  been  fixed  affably  on  the  trees  below  his  house,  to 
bear  upon  Turner,  and  gaining  from  his  inspection  a  dawning 
discomfort.     "  Card  for  Mrs.  Dale  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  here  it  is.  Captain  Thomas  Turner,  The  Fisheries, 
Exton.  If  you  wouldn't  mind  just  taking  it,  I  can  get  back 
there  as  soon  as  possible." 

Mr.  Dale  instinctively  took  the  card  that  was  held  out  to 
him,  and  as  he  did  so  enlightenment  burst  upon  him.  It 
brought  no  confusion  with  it,  as  might  have  been  expected, 
but  a  huge  roar  of  laughter.  *'  Well,  that's  the  best  thing 
I've  ever  heard  of,"  he  said  when  he  was  able  to  speak. 
"  To  think  of  me  taking  you  for  a  touting  tradesman  !  "  He 
roared  again  as  he  led  the  way  across  the  hall.  "  'Pon  my 
word,  that's  the  best  joke,"  he  said.  "  I  must  tell  mother 
that.  Hi !  mother  !  Come  in  here,  Mr. — er.  Captain — er. 
You  shall  tell  her  yourself.  And  you  to  take  it  like  that, 
too  !  I'll  tell  you  what,  Mr. — er — Captain  Turner,  you  and 
me  ought  to  get  on  together.  That's  the  sort  of  thing  I  like. 
Well,  you'll  have  a  joke  against  me  all  your  life.  Hi  ! 
mother ! " 

Mrs.  Dale  arrived,  and  the  joke  was  explained  to  her. 
She  did  not  receive  it  with  the  same  ecstasy  as  her  husband, 
but  looked  at  him  reproachfully.  "  Oh,  father  !  "  she  said. 
"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  Captain  Turner  will  think  of 
us,  and  how  you  could  make  the  mistake  passes  my  compre- 
hension. And  showing  him  in  here,  too,  where  everything  is 
in  such  a  muddle  !  " 

"  Lor',  he  don't  mind  that,"  said  Mr.  Dale.  "  Do  you, 
Mr. — er — Captain  ?     And  the  way   he  took  it !     Never  so 


VISITS  385 

much  as  a  smile.  'Pon  my  word,  it  was  the  very  best  thing." 
He  roared  again,  but  came  round  suddenly.  "  What'll  you 
take.  Captain  ?  A  whisky  and  soda  ?  Have  a  cigar.  Here 
you  are ;  you  won't  find  anything  wrong  with  that.  What'll 
you  take  to  drink,  now?  " 

"You  offered  me  a  glass  of  beer  just  now,"  said  Turner  i 
"  I  think  I'll  take  that." 

This  set  Mr.  Dale  off  again.  He  slapped  his  fat  thighs 
with  his  fat  hands  in  an  ecstasy  of  enjoyment,  and  expressed 
the  utmost  gratification  at  finding  a  man  so  after  his  own  heart 
living  in  the  place. 

Turner  took  his  enthusiasm  quietly.  They  were  all  like 
that,  he  said,  in  Exton.  His  friend  Browne  was  like  that. 
Mrs.  Prentice,  the  Vicar's  wife,  was  like  it.  If  Mr.  Dale 
had  met  her  at  the  door  and  taken  her  for  a  servant  come 
after  a  place,  there  was  nobody  who  would  have  enjoyed  it 
more.  Even  Lady  Wrotham  was  like  it.  She  might  seem 
a  little  stiff  at  first  sight,  but  if  you  told  her  exactly  what  you 
thought  about  things  she  took  to  you  at  once. 

"  I  think  you  must  be  wrong  about  Mrs.  Prentice,  Captain 
Turner,"  said  Mrs.  Dale.  "  She  did  come  in  to  see  us  on 
Saturday,  and  we  did  not  like  her." 

"  Like  her  !  "  said  Mr.  Dale.  "  No,  we  did  not  like  her. 
We  make  no  pretence,  but  we're  not  accustomed  to  be 
patronized  by  ministers'  wives,  and  told  when  we  ought  to  go 
to  church,  and  when  we  oughtn't  to  go  to  church.  And 
we  don't  intend  to  take  our  religion  from  her,  nor  our 
politics  neither.  And  so  I  told  her  pretty  plain,  and  she  didn't 
like  that.  So  there  won't  be  much  love  lost  between  us  and 
her." 

"  Lady  Wrotham  is  quite  different,"  said  Turner.  *'  She's 
a  strong  Tory  and  Churchwoman  herself,  but  you've  only  got 
to  tell  her  you're  not,  and  she'll  take  to  you  wonderfully." 

"  Come  now,  I  like  that,"  said  Mrs.  Dale  heartily.     "  I'm 


386  EXTON  MANOR 

very  glad  to  hear  it  of  her  ladyship.  She  and  us  won't  be 
seeing  much  of  each  other,  I  dare  say.  She's  in  one  walk 
of  life  and  we're  in  another,  and  no  intentions  to  presume  or 
to  get  out  of  it.  But  if  I  do  ever  have  the  chance  of  a  little 
talk  with  her  ladyship  I'll  make  it  quite  plain  that  I  don't 
agree  with  her  Church  nor  her  politics,  but  that's  no  reason  I 
shouldn't  go  my  way  and  she  go  hers,  and  neither  think  the 
worse  of  the  other." 

"  You'll  find  that  the  best  way,"  said  Turner.  "  I  think  I 
must  be  going  now." 

Mr.  Dale  would  have  liked  to  sit  and  talk  to  him  for  an 
hour,  but  Turner  prepared  decidedly  to  take  his  leave.  Mrs. 
Dale  went  up-stairs,  and  Mr.  Dale  accompanied  him  to  the 
front  door.  As  they  stood  there  a  carriage  and  pair,  with 
coachman  and  footman  on  the  box,  came  in  view  round  the 
bend  of  the  steep  drive.  "  Lor',  what's  this  ?  "  exclaimed 
Mr.  Dale. 

"  It's  Lady  Wrotham  coming  to  see  you,"  said  Turner, 
bending  down  to  fasten  his  clips,  and  possibly  to  hide  his 
face. 

"Well,  now,  I  take  that  very  kind,"  said  Mr.  Dale,  and 
rushed  back  into  the  hall  to  get  his  coat,  appearing  again  at 
the  porch  in  the  act  of  putting  it  on  as  the  carriage  came  to  a 
stop.  Lady  Syde  was  the  nearer  to  him,  and  he  shook  hands 
with  her  warmly.  "  How  do  you  do.  Lady  Wrotham  ?  "  he 
said  heartily.  "  I  take  this  as  a  great  compliment,  and  so  will 
mother.  Come  in  now,  do,  and  bring  your  friend.  If  you'll 
honour  us  by  drinking  a  cup  of  tea " 

Lady  Wrotham  managed  to  make  herself  heard.  "  /  am 
Lady  Wrotham,"  she  said,  with  a  cloud  of  annoyance  on  her 
Olympian  brow.  "  I  have  come  to  see  Mrs.  Dale.  This  is 
Lady  Syde." 

Mr.  Dale  stared  for  a  moment,  and  then  slapped  his  thigh. 
"  Well,  if  I  haven't  put  my  foot  in  it  and  made  a  mistake 


VISITS  387 

again  !  "  he  cried.  "  Whatever  mother'll  say  to  me,  I  don't 
know.  It  was  only  just  now,  Mrs. — er — Lady — er — that  I 
took  the  Captain  here  for  a  tradesman  come  for  orders,  and 
wanted  to  send  him  about  his  business."  He  had  time  to  in- 
dicate Turner  before  losing  himself  again  in  a  paroxysm  of 
hearty  laughter. 

Turner  took  off  his  cap.  "  It  was  only  natural,"  he  said. 
"  I  told  you  my  father  was  a  shop-keeper,  Lady  Wrotham." 

"Very  amusing,  no  doubt,"  said  Lady  Wrotham.  "Mr. 
Dale,  will  you  kindly  tell  Mrs.  Dale  that  Lady  Wrotham  has 
called,  or  shall  my  servant  ring  the  bell  ?  " 

Mr.  Dale  came  to  himself.  "  I'm  forgetting  my  manners, 
my  lady,"  he  said.  "  If  you'll  kindly  step  in,  I'll  tell  the 
wife.  I  expect  she'll  want  a  few  minutes  to  smarten  herself 
up.  Will  you  just  step  in  and  take  a  glass  of  port  wine  now  ? 
— you  and  your  friend — I  didn't  catch  her  name." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Lady  Wrotham  shortly,  becoming 
more  and  more  angry.  "  Will  you  let  Mrs.  Dale  know  I  am 
here  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  but  do  take  something — a  glass  of  port,  or  sherry, 
or  a  cup  of  tea — anything  you  like  to  name.  This  is  Liberty 
Hall,  Step  in  now  and  make  yourself  at  home,  and  I'll  go 
and  tell  mother." 

Lady  Wrotham  lost  patience.  "  Put  this  card  on  the  table," 
she  said  to  the  footman,  "  and  drive  on.  I  cannot  wait  any 
longer." 

"  Wait  a  minute,  wait  a  minute,"  said  Mr.  Dale.  "  I 
didn't  know  you  were  in  such  a  hurry.  I'll  go  and  fetch  the 
wife  at  once,"  and  he  disappeared  into  the  house. 

"  Put  the  card  on  the  table,"  repeated  Lady  Wrotham, 
"and  drive  on."  Her  face  was  a  study  in  dark  displeasure  as 
she  sat  upright  in  her  carriage  while  her  behest  was  obeyed. 
Turner  had  taken  himself  off  on  his  bicycle,  chuckling,  but 
Peter  and  Gladys  were  standing  in  the  drive  devouring  her  and 


388  EXTON  MANOR 

her  equipage  with  astonished  eyes,  Mary's  garden  hat  could  be 
seen  over  a  low  bush  behind  them,  Ada's  face  was  only  half 
concealed  by  a  window  curtain,  and,  as  they  drove  away, 
Lotty  looked  up  from  a  rose-bush  in  the  open  garden,  and 
Tom  strolled  innocently  past  them  with  his  briar  pipe  in  his 
mouth. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  reception  ?  "  said  Lady  Wro- 
tham  as  the  carriage  rolled  down  the  hill.  "  And  those  are 
the  sort  of  people  I  am  supposed  to  live  on  equal  terms  with, 
Henrietta.     The  man  is  no  better  than  a  savage." 

"  It  is  my  belief,"  said  Lady  Syde,  "  that  he  was  drunk. 
You  cannot  put  up  with  them,  Sarah  ;  they  must  go." 

The  two  ladies  soothed  their  rasped  feelings  with  a  long 
drive,  and  returned  to  the  Abbey  for  tea.  They  had  no  sooner 
taken  their  seats  for  another  quiet  chat,  one  of  a  continuous 
series  with  which  they  entertained  each  other  whenever  they 
were  in  company,  when  Mrs.  Ferraby  was  announced. 

Mrs.  Ferraby,  beautifully  dressed,  and  throwing  the  two 
elder  ladies  quite  into  the  shade  by  her  appearance,  came  in, 
graceful  and  smiling. 

"  My  party  has  gone  off  on  the  yacht  again,"  she  said,  "  but 
I  thought  I  would  stay  behind  and  come  and  see  you,  Lady 
Wrotham.  Oh,  Lady  Syde,  how  do  you  do  ?  I  heard  you 
were  here.  Laurence  is  an  old  friend  of  ours,  and  I  have 
heard  so  much  of  you." 

"  A  good  deal  that  you  would  not  care  to  repeat,  I  dare  say," 
responded  Lady  Syde,  and  Lady  Wrotham  added  — 

"  Major  Syde  is  no  great  favourite  of  mine,  as  I  dare  say 
you  know,  Mrs.  Ferraby.  We  will  find  some  other  topic  of 
conversation.  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  I  hope  you  are  enjoy- 
ing your  holiday  in  the  country." 

"  Very  much,  thank  you,"  replied  Mrs.  Ferraby,  rustling 
her  silks.  "  It  has  been  such  a  rush  in  London  that  we  are 
glad  to  get  away  for  a  few  days'  rest." 


VISITS  389 

"  I  suppose  Mr.  Ferraby  works  so  hard  at  his  business,** 
said  Lady  Wrotham,  "  that  he  welcomes  these  holidays, 
although  to  the  rest  of  us  they  are  rather  tiresome." 

Mrs.  Ferraby  looked  at  her  and  then  laughed.  "Yes,"  she 
said,  "  we  generally  spend  the  Bank  Holiday  on  Hampstead 
Heath,  but  this  time  business  has  been  so  good  that  we 
thought  we  might  manage  a  picnic  down  here." 

Lady  Wrotham  looked  at  her  with  displeasure,  but  Lady 
Syde  suddenly  laughed  and  said,  "  Very  good ;  you  deserved 
that,  Sarah,"  which  did  not  improve  Lady  Wrotham's  temper. 

"  I  hope  you  like  Exton,"  said  Mrs.  Ferraby.  "  We  are  so 
fond  of  the  place  that  we  would  put  up  with  any  inconvenience 
to  be  here.  And,  of  course,  the  Forest  Lodge  is  very  incon- 
venient." 

*'  I  am  sure  we  shall  be  very  pleased  to  relieve  you  of  it," 
said  Lady  Wrotham.  "  There  would  be  no  difficulty  in  let- 
ting it  again  to  people  who  were  prepared  to  live  there  quietly, 
and  see  a  few  of  their  friends  there  quietly,  from  time  to  time." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  won't  get  rid  of  us  so  easily,"  said  Mrs. 
Ferraby,  still  smiling.  "  We  would  rather  picnic  here  than 
live  comfortably  in  a  larger  house.  I  wonder  if  you  and  Lady 
Syde  would  care  to  dine  with  us  one  night.  We  shall  be  here 
till  Thursday  or  Friday,  and  we  have  some  amusing  people 
staying  with  us." 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  Lady  Wrotham.  "  I  do  not  dine 
out  in  the  country  now.  And,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Mrs. 
Ferraby,  I  am  not  at  all  anxious  to  meet  your  amusing  people, 
nor,  I  expect,  would  they  be  very  anxious  to  meet  me.  I  am 
afraid  I  should  hardly  add  to  their  amusement." 

"  Oh,  but  I  am  sure  you  would.  Lady  Wrotham,"  said  Mrs. 
Ferraby  brightly.  "  However,  I  won't  press  you  against  your 
will.  I  only  thought  that  you  might  be  a  little  dull  living  here 
in  this  big  house  alone,  and  we  should  like  to  do  something 
while  wc  are  down  here  to  cheer  you  up  a  little." 


390  EXTON  MANOR 

*'  You  would  no  doubt  find  it  dull,  living  here  alone,  Mrs. 
Ferraby,"  said  Lady  Wrotham.  "  But  I  am  thankful  to  say 
that  I  have  resources,  and  that  I  am  not  dependent  upon  a 
succession  of  noisy  visitors  to  entertain  me." 

"  That  sounds  a  trifle  rude,"  said  Lady  Syde  j  "  but  I  am 
sure  you  do  not  mean  to  be  so,  Sarah." 

''  Certainly  I  do  not  wish  to  be  rude,"  said  Lady  Wro- 
tham. "  But  I  am  accustomed  to  say  what  I  think.  I  never 
mixed  myself  up  with  the  sort  of  life  that  Mrs.  Ferraby's 
friends  live,  either  in  London  or  in  the  country,  and  in  the 
country  especially  I  dislike  it.  I  think  it  is  thoroughly  unset- 
tling. I  am  quite  content  to  live  quietly  amongst  the  people 
around  me,  whether  they  are  what  are  called  smart  people  or 
not." 

Mrs.  Ferraby  had  listened  to  this  speech  with  attention. 
"  But  I  thought  you  did  not  get  on  well  with  the  people 
around  you  here.  Lady  Wrotham,"  she  said.  "  I  understood 
that  you  were  not  pleased  with  them  and  saw  nothing  of  any- 
body." 

Lady  Wrotham,  thus  addressed,  and  the  annoyance  to  which 
she  had  been  subjected  earlier  in  the  afternoon  having  not  yet 
entirely  worn  off,  lost  what  little  desire  she  may  have  had  to 
conceal  her  dislike  for  the  kind  of  existence  represented  by 
Mrs.  Ferraby.  "  It  is  quite  true,"  she  said.  "  The  people 
here  are  the  most  impossible  that  I  could  find  to  live  quietly 
amongst.  But,  tiresome  and  quarrelsome  as  they  are,  I  would 
rather  take  my  chance  of  bringing  them  to  a  better  state  of 
mind  than  be  dependent  for  society  on  a  set  of  fast  London 
people,  most  of  whom  are  no  better  than  they  should  be. 
Nothing  could  be  more  disturbing  than  to  introduce  that  sort 
of  life  into  a  place  like  this.  It  sets  a  thoroughly  bad  ex- 
ample, and  it  gives  people  who  don't  know  any  better  the  im- 
pression that  it  is  representative  of  the  upper  classes.  It  is  a 
very  diflTerent  kind  of  life  to  the  one  I  wish  to  set  before  them,** 


VISITS  391 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Ferraby,  rising,  and  still  smiling  sweetly, 
"  I  should  have  thought  it  was  a  better  example  than  to  quar- 
rel with  all  your  neighbours  and  live  in  solitary  grandeur. 
My  husband  and  I  have  always  been  very  good  friends  with 
the  people  here,  except  perhaps  with  Mrs.  Prentice,  whom 
neither  of  us  like.  It  has  been  quite  delightful  to  come  here 
and  see  something  of  such  nice  people.  We  come  now  and 
find  them  all  set  by  the  ears.  However,  we  shall  not  trouble 
you  again.  Lady  Wrotham.  I  can  quite  understand  now  why 
Exton  is  no  longer  the  quiet,  friendly  little  place  it  was  a  few 
months  ago."  And  with  this  parting  shot  she  went  away, 
without  further  leave-taking,  leaving  Lady  Wrotham  and  Lady 
Syde  alone  once  more. 

Lady  Wrotham  made  a  strong  effort  to  master  her  wrath. 
*'  Another  annoyance,"  she  said.  "  My  life  is  made  up  of 
them  now.  The  woman  is  innately  vulgar.  All  these  fasi 
people  are  so  at  heart." 

"  Well,  Sarah,"  said  Lady  Syde,  "  I  must  say  that  you  were 
not  very  conciliatory.  You  can  hardly  expect  a  woman  in 
Mrs.  Ferraby's  position  to  sit  down  quietly  under  the  sort  of 
attack  you  made  upon  her." 

"  Her  position  !  "  echoed  Lady  Wrotham.  "  What  is  her 
position  ?     She  shall  listen  to  whatever  I  choose  to  say  to  her." 

If  there  was  one  thing  that  Mrs.  Ferraby  quite  made  up  her 
mind  about  as  she  motored  back  to  the  Forest  Lodge,  it  was 
that  under  no  circumstances  would  she  ever  again  give  Lady 
Wrotham  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her  in  the  way  she 
had  done.  She  told  her  husband  of  what  had  passed  between 
them  when  he  returned  with  his  guests  from  their  yachting 
excursion.  "  I  think  I  gave  her  as  good  as  she  gave  me,"  she 
said.  "  But  I  can't  help  feeling  rather  sorry  for  the  poor  old 
thing,  Hugh.  She  is  awfully  rude,  but  she  is  rather  pathetic 
too,  all  alone  there.  Still,  of  course,  one  can't  have  anything 
more  to  do  with  her.     I'll  never  go  near  her  again." 


392  EXTON  MANOR 

"  No  necessity  to,"  said  Mr.  Ferraby.  "  She  must  be  an  old 
terror.  Lots  of  nice  people  in  the  world,  without  bothering 
about  the  disagreeable  ones.  I  don't  wonder  that  George 
Wrotham  isn't  very  respectful  when  he  talks  about  her.  I 
say,  old  girl,  he  and  Syde  are  making  the  running  pretty  hot 
with  the  little  O'Keefe.     Think  there's  anything  in  it?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  think,"  said  Mrs.  Ferraby.  *■'■  I 
don't  see  how  Laurence  can  possibly  marry  her,  but  he  seems 
keener  than  I  have  ever  seen  him  before.  And  as  for  George, 
well,  you  expect  it  of  him ;  but  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  the  way 
he  and  Laurence  are  fighting  over  her  doesn't  end  in  making 
him  really  in  earnest." 

"There's  no  doubt  about  the  fighting.  Syde  is  a  bigger 
fool  than  I  take  him  for,  if  he's  going  to  quarrel  with  Wrotham. 
Which  does  she  like  best  ?     /  can't  make  out." 

"  If  she  likes  either  of  them,  I  believe  it  is  Laurence." 

"  Still,  he  wouldn't  have  much  chance  against  Wrotham  if 
it  really  came  to  business." 

This  was  the  Ferraby  point  of  view.  But  Mrs.  Ferraby 
said,  "  She  is  rather  different  from  ordinary  people.  I  think 
she  would  take  the  one  she  liked  best ;  but  I  am  not  at  all  sure 
she  cares  for  either  of  them.  She's  a  dear  thing.  I  am  glad 
we  are  able  to  give  her  a  good  time.  It  must  be  pretty  dull 
for  her  here." 

*'  Yes ;  why  don't  you  ask  her  to  come  up  to  town  with 
us,  and  take  her  about  a  bit  ?  " 

"  She  wouldn't  come  when  I  asked  her  last  year." 

"  I  think  she  would  now.  It's  time  she  married  again. 
She's  too  good  to  be  buried  alive  down  here.  Well,  I  know 
which  of  those  two  would  make  her  the  best  husband,  if  she 
wants  another.  I  say,  we  must  go  and  dress.  It's  nearly 
nine  o'clock." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE    PICNIC    BREAKS  UP 

Motoring  and  yachting  by  day,  Bridge-playing  half  the 
night  and  sleeping  the  rest,  and  talking  and  laughing  all  the 
time,  except  when  their  eyes  were  actually  closed,  the  genial 
company  gathered  together  for  the  picnic  at  the  Forest  Lodge 
got  through  the  days  very  comfortably,  and  managed  to  escape 
almost  entirely  the  clutches  of  the  Giant  Boredom,  whom  it 
was  their  constant  endeavour  to  keep  at  bay  until  such  time  as 
they  should  be  forced  to  climb  the  last  great  beanstalk,  at  the 
top  of  which  they  pictured  him  as  reigning  for  evermore. 
Lord  Wrotham  and  Mrs.  O'Keefe,  having  been  elected 
honorary  members  of  the  picnic,  were  with  them  every  day, 
and  dined  with  them  on  most  evenings,  but  Sir  Francis 
RedclifFe  was  a  continual  deserter.  He  liked  sailing,  he  said, 
better  than  any  other  amusement  they  had  to  offer  him ;  he 
hated  sitting  still  and  doing  nothing  with  his  hands.  And,  as 
nobody  else  during  the  days  of  that  particular  picnic  happened 
to  want  to  sail,  he  had  the  entire  use  of  Mr.  Ferraby's  boat  at 
Harben,  and  frequently  persuaded  his  cousins  at  the  White 
House,  as  well  as  Mr.  Browne  and  Captain  Turner,  to  use  it 
with  him.  Thus  there  were  two  distinct  parties  enjoying 
their  Whitsuntide  holidays  at  Exton,  and  the  quieter  of  the 
two  probably  enjoyed  them  as  much  as  the  noisier. 

The  Redcliffes  had  dined  at  the  Forest  Lodge  on  the 
second  evening  of  the  picnic,  but  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  who  liked 
the  Ferrabys,  but  liked  them  better  in  her  own  house  than 
in  theirs,  had  refused  further  invitations  ;  Mrs.  Ferraby  had 
accompanied  Francis  RedclifFe  to  the  White  House  on 
Sunday   afternoon   while   her   husband   and  the   rest  of  the 

393 


394  EXTON  MANOR 

guests  were  scouring  the  roads  of  the  country  in  search  of 
Sabbath  calm,  but  otherwise  the  two  parties  had  not  fused. 
Neither  had  the  Redcliffes  seen  Norah  O'Kcefe  since  they 
had  dined  together  at  the  Forest  Lodge  on  Saturday. 

Now  the  motor-cars  had  flitted  away  from  the  Forest 
Lodge,  each  with  its  load  of  revivified  picnickers.  The  yacht 
had  steamed  back  to  Greathampton,  prepared  to  put  herself  at 
the  disposal  of  any  one  who  was  ready  to  pay  two  or  three 
hundred  pounds  a  week  for  the  privilege  of  amusing  them- 
selves with  her,  and  the  sailing  boat  had  taken  up  her  moor- 
ings in  the  Wemble  River,  there  to  remain  until  the  Ferrabys 
should  take  it  into  their  heads  to  order  her  out  again.  And 
Exton  Manor  had  settled  down  again  to  the  discussion  of  its 
internal  politics. 

But  the  Whitsuntide  invasion  had  brought  one  or  two  new 
factors  into  play,  and  the  situation  was  not  in  all  respects  the 
same  as  it  had  been  before.  The  most  disturbing  of  these, 
perhaps,  was  a  slight  coolness  that  sprang  up  between  Hilda 
Redcliffe  and  Norah  O'Keefe.  Norah  came  up  to  the  White 
House  on  the  day  that  the  Forest  Lodge  was  left  to  its  solitude 
and  Exton  to  its  everyday  ways.  Her  air  was  no  less  friendly 
than  usual ;  perhaps  it  was  rather  more  obviously  friendly,  as 
if  she  wished  to  show  that  she  was  entirely  unchanged. 
"You  must  have  thought  that  I  had  quite  forsaken  you," 
she  said.  "  But  I  seem  to  have  been  caught  up  into  such  a 
whirl  of  gaiety  and  amusement,  that  I  have  had  no  time  to 
see  even  my  best  friends.  But  you  have  been  gay  too,  haven't 
you  ?  I  should  have  liked  to  come  sailing  with  you,  but  the 
Ferrabys  wouldn't  let  me  off  for  a  single  day,  and,  to  tell  you 
the  truth.  Sir  Francis  never  asked  me." 

"I  expect  you  enjoyed  yourself  much  more  as  it  was,"  said 
Hilda.  "  But  I  thought  you  were  going  to  town  with  Mrs. 
Ferraby." 

"  They    asked    me   to  go   back  with  them,"  said   Norah 


THE  PICNIC  BREAKS  UP  395 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  go  just  yet.  I  want  to  have  a  quiet 
little  time  with  you  first  after  all  this  dashing  about.  We 
are  very  happy  together  here,  and  too  much  excitement  isn't 
good  for  quiet  people." 

"  We  haven't  been  very  happy  here  lately,"  said  Hilda ; 
*'  and  we  are  going  away  ourselves  in  a  week.  We  are  going 
to  stay  with  my  cousin,  and  we  shall  be  very  glad  to  get 
away  from  Exton  for  a  bit." 

From  this  short  conversation  the  coolness  sprang.  Each 
of  them  felt  herself  aggrieved.  Norah  had  been  greatly 
pressed  by  Mrs.  Ferraby,  and  also  by  most  of  her  guests,  to 
return  to  London  with  them,  and  there  continue  the  various 
intimacies  she  had  formed  during  the  course  of  the  picnic, 
and  would  have  done  so  but  that  she  thought  her  older  friends, 
whom  it  was  rather  on  her  conscience  that  she  had  neglected 
lately,  might  want  her.  Now  she  felt  that  her  good  intentions 
had  been  thrown  in  her  face,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had 
been  told  that  they  could  do  very  well  without  her.  She  had 
some  reason  in  being  aggrieved. 

Hilda  would  have  told  herself,  and  did  tell  herself,  that  she 
had  no  reason  to  be  aggrieved,  and  was  not  aggrieved.  The 
last  thing  she  would  have  been  willing  to  acknowledge  was 
that  it  caused  her  the  slightest  disappointment  that  Lord 
Wrotham,  who,  until  Norah's  superior  charms  had  attracted 
him,  had  certainly  shown  himself  attracted  by  her,  had  taken 
no  steps  to  pursue  his  pleasantly-begun  intimacy  with  her  and 
her  mother.  She  had  seen  him  only  twice  since  he  had  come 
up  to  the  White  House  directly  after  his  arrival  in  Exton  and 
intimated  his  intention  of  coming  up  again  pretty  frequently 
during  his  visit.  The  first  time  was  at  dinner  at  the  Forest 
Lodge,  when  his  open,  friendly  manner  to  herself  and  her 
mother  had  not  deteriorated  in  quality,  but  had  in  quantity,  for 
he  had  devoted  himself  to  Norah  throughout  the  evening  and 
had  found  no  time  to  do  more  than  say  a  few  words  to  Hilda. 


396  EXTON  MANOR 

On  Sunday  morning  he  had  been  in  church,  sitting  alone  in 
the  pew  which  his  mother  had  forsaken  for  another  in  Standon 
church,  and  frequently  looking  behind  him  as  if  in  search  of 
somebody.  He  had  spoken  to  her  and  her  mother  in  the 
churchyard  after  the  service,  amiably  cracking  a  joke,  and  had 
then  darted  away.  Norah  O'Keefe  had  not  put  in  an  appear- 
ance, and  he  had  presumably  gone  to  find  out  the  reason. 

Hilda  told  herself  that  nothing  more  than  this  could  have 
been  expected  of  him,  and  that  she  certainly  neither  expected 
nor  wanted  more  of  him.  Also  it  was  very  natural  that  he 
should  prefer  the  society  of  Norah  O'Keefe,  who  was  far 
more  beautiful  and  attractive  than  she  was,  or  professed  to 
be,  to  hers.  Also,  that  he  was  welcome  to  take  pleasure 
in  Norah's  society  as  far  as  she  was  concerned,  that  being 
exactly  what  she  would  have  expected  and  would  have 
wished.  There  was  nothing  at  all  in  Lord  Wrotham's 
behaviour  that  offended  her  in  the  least  degree ;  in  fact,  she 
had  not  cared  about  his  rather  too  pressing  attentions,  and 
preferred  things  as  they  were.  But,  at  the  same  time,  she 
could  not  help  feeling  a  little  disappointed  in  the  behaviour  of 
her  friend.  It  was  not  quite  nice  that  Norah,  who  had  only 
been  widowed  a  short  time,  and  had  often  expressed  in  their 
more  confidential  talks  together  her  intention  of  remain- 
ing a  widow  all  her  life,  should  wish,  as  apparently  she  did 
wish,  to  have  all  the  men  around  her  at  her  feet.  She  would 
say  herself,  no  doubt,  that  she  could  not  help  it ;  but  there 
was  the  fact  that  she  did  not  discourage  them.  They  had 
often  laughed  together  over  the  obvious  infatuation  of  Cap- 
tain Turner  and  Mr.  Browne,  who  had  both  thrown  them- 
selves at  her  immediately  upon  her  arrival  in  Exton,  and 
had  behaved  in  the  most  absurd  way  ever  since,  although 
they  had  been  intimate  at  the  White  House  years  before. 
She  was  quite  welcome  to  the  attentions  of  two  middle-aged 
bachelors,  but   most   people  would    have  found  them  rathtf 


THE  PICNIC  BREAKS  UP  397 

tiresome  and  put  an  end  to  them.  She  was  also  quite 
welcome  to  the  devotion  of  Fred  Prentice,  who  had  behaved 
very  badly,  and  whom  she  herself  never  thought  of  without 
indignation,  and  hoped  never  to  see  again.  But  would  a 
really  nice  woman  have  acted  so  as  to  call  forth  that  devotion, 
under  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  the  case  ?  Hilda  was 
obliged  to  think  she  would  not.  And  now  here  was  Lord 
Wrotham,  and  if  Hilda  had  eyes  in  her  head,  yet  another 
admirer,  both  apparently  encouraged  to  pay  her  as  much 
attention  as  they  cared  to.  No,  it  was  not  nice,  it  was  not 
what  she  would  have  expected  of  Norah.  As  far  as  she  was 
concerned,  it  made  no  difference  at  all.  She  had  most 
decidedly  never  been  in  love,  or  near  to  being  in  love,  either 
with  Fred  Prentice  or  Lord  Wrotham,  but  she  was  inclined 
to  think  that  if  she  had  been  it  would  have  made  no  differ- 
ence ;  they  would  have  been  lured  away  just  the  same.  It 
was  really  rather  a  wonder  that  Norah  had  not  exercised  her 
fascination  on  Francis — as  she  now  called  her  cousin.  He 
was,  of  course,  a  man  of  much  stronger  character  than 
either  Fred  Prentice  or  Lord  Wrotham  ;  there  was  no  com- 
parison between  them.  She  herself  would  not  have  objected 
in  the  least  if  she  had  done  so  ;  not  for  herself,  that  is,  be- 
cause she,  at  any  rate,  was  not  anxious  to  be  surrounded  by 
men ;  she  did  not  care  about  that  sort  of  thing ;  but  he  was 
her  cousin,  and  now  a  very  good  friend  both  to  her  mother 
and  herself,  and  really,  one  might  have  supposed  that  that 
was  enough  reason,  to  judge  by  what  had  happened  before. 

Thus  Hilda,  in  the  general  soreness  of  her  heart,  brought 
about  by  various  causes,  and  doing  a  good  deal  less  than 
justice  to  the  friend  whom  she  had  hitherto  valued  next  after 
her  mother.  For  the  present  the  friendship  was  clouded,  and 
little  pleasure  was  to  be  got  out  of  it,  and  it  was  with  a  feel- 
ing of  relief  on  both  sides  that  Norah  O'Keefe  went  up  to 
London  a  few  days  later,  and  Hilda  and  her  mother  to  pay  a 


398  EXTON  MANOR 

long  visit  to  Riverslea,  the  old  home  of  their  family,  which 
neither  of  them  had  ever  expected  to  see. 

Lady  Syde  also  departed  from  the  Abbey  about  this  time, 
and  Browne  and  Turner  set  out  together  on  a  little  Conti- 
nental tour,  Browne  feeling  the  necessity  of  relieving  his 
mind  for  a  time  of  the  cares  that  oppressed  it  in  connection 
with  the  management  of  Exton  Manor,  if  he  was  to  con- 
tinue to  administer  its  affairs  with  anything  of  his  former 
capability,  and  Turner  consenting  to  go  with  him  to  look 
after  him.  So  that  of  all  the  inhabitants  of  Exton  with 
whom  we  have  had  to  do,  there  were  now  only  left  Lady 
Wrotham,  living  in  solitary  state  at  the  Abbey,  and  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Prentice  at  the  vicarage.  The  Dales,  it  is  true,  were 
at  the  Lodge,  and  at  this  time  were  probably  the  only 
people  who  were  thoroughly  contented  with  their  lot,  for  it 
had  never  occurred  either  to  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Dale  that  their 
place  in  life  would  entitle  them,  when  they  settled  down  at 
Exton,  to  consider  themselves  on  any  sort  of  equality  with 
Lady  Wrotham,  and  they  were  consequently  not  disturbed 
when  the  great  lady,  the  purport  of  whose  first  visit  they 
had  not  quite  understood,  intimated  by  her  manner  when 
either  of  them  passed  her  carriage  that  further  intimacy  with 
them  was  not  in  her  mind.  So  the  Dales  lived  their  life 
apart,  and  what  with  their  garden  and  their  chickens,  and  their 
boat  and  their  pony  carriage,  and  a  succession  of  visitors  from 
Manchester  and  elsewhere,  found  that  life  came  quite  up  to 
their  expectations. 

It  would  have  been  well  for  Lady  Wrotham  in  her  beauti- 
ful house  and  gardens,  surrounded  by  everything  that  might 
have  made  the  most  exigent  of  great  ladies  happy,  if  she 
had  been  able  to  wake  up  in  the  morning  with  a  tithe  of  the 
pleasurable  anticipations  with  which  any  member  of  the 
despised  Dale  family  hailed  a  fresh  summer  day.  Encouraged 
by  Lady  Syde,  she  had  made  an  attempt  to  set  her  life  on 


THE  PICNIC  BREAKS  UP  399 

a  basis  more  satisfactory  to  herself,  but  the  attempt  had  ended 
in  failure,  and  left  her  with  an  added  sense  of  injury.  It  was 
perhaps  the  bitterest  feature  of  the  failure  she  had  so  far  met 
with  in  her  ruling  of  what  she  looked  upon  as  her  kingdom, 
that  the  actual  reigning  monarch  was  her  son,  and  that,  al- 
though he  could  easily  have  put  things  straight  for  her  by 
leaving  her  to  act  as  she  thought  fit,  and  officially  endorsing 
her  actions,  he  had  refused  to  do  so;  and  here  she  was,  a 
dowager  queen  with  a  throne  but  no  sceptre,  and  even  the 
glory  of  her  throne  of  no  avail,  since  the  eyes  of  her  subjects 
seemed  to  be  blind  to  it.  Much  could  be  written  of  the  woes 
of  the  dowager  and  the  passing  of  power — instruments  tuned 
for  the  tragic  muse. 

The  one  attempt  to  break  the  bonds  may  be  recorded. 

*'  You  must  have  a  serious  talk  with  George,"  said  Lady 
Syde,  after  the  subject  had  been  threshed  out  between  the  two 
ladies  for  the  twentieth  time. 

Lady  Wrotham  intimated  her  willingness,  but  the  difficulty 
at  that  time  was  to  get  hold  of  George.  He  was  staying  with 
his  mother,  but  for  all  she  saw  of  him  he  might  have  been 
staying  anywhere.  "  He  has  not  dined  here  once  since  he 
came,"  she  said.  *'  He  flies  out  of  the  house  the  moment  he 
has  breakfasted,  and  comes  back  long  after  I  am  in  bed.  I 
hear  him,  for  I  do  not  sleep  well.  I  cannot  very  well  say  that 
I  do  not  want  to  have  him  here,  but,  really,  if  the  Ferrabys  are 
such  an  attraction  to  him,  he  might  just  as  well  have  joined 
their  party  altogether.  This  house,  at  any  rate,  is  not  his  un- 
der the  arrangement,  and  I  have  no  mind  to  have  him  using  it 
merely  as  an  hotel,  and  not  paying  his  mother  the  very  smallest 
attention." 

"  Young  men  will  behave  in  that  way,"  said  Lady  Syde. 
**  I  am  too  used  to  it  myself  to  care  very  much.  But  you 
must  tell  him  that  you  wish  to  speak  to  him.  If  breakfast 
is  the  only  meal  he  takes  here  I  should  breakfast  with  him 


400  EXTON  MANOR 

and  insist  upon  a  conversation  before  he  leaves  the 
house." 

"  His  breakfast  takes  him  about  five  minutes.  He  would 
say  he  must  be  going,  and  rush  out  of  the  house." 

"  Then  write  him  a  note  and  say  you  must  speak  to  him 
before  he  goes.  I  cannot  think  that  he  will  refuse  to  do 
so." 

The  note  was  written  and  the  interview  took  place  in  the 
half-hour  before  Lord  Wrotham  drove  off  to  join  the  Ferrabys 
and  their  party  at  the  station.  Lady  Syde  was  present  by  re- 
quest. Lady  Wrotham  in  her  anxiety  to  get  to  the  point, 
omitted  all  reference  to  his  undutiful  behaviour,  and  was  at 
first  even  a  little  flurried,  as  he  walked  about  the  room  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  looked  from  time  to  time  at  his 
watch. 

**  My  dear  mother,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  her  statement  that 
affairs  were  not  progressing  as  she  had  hoped  at  Exton  and  that 
changes  must  be  made,  "  if  you  insist  upon  quarrelling  with 
everybody  in  the  place,  you  can't  expect  to  be  comfortable  any- 
where. I  don't  know  what  changes  you  want  made.  The 
only  change  I  can  suggest  is  that  you  should  recognize  that  you 
are  living  in  the  twentieth  century." 

"  I  am  quite  at  a  loss  to  know  what  you  can  mean  by  that 
piece  of  advice,  George,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  a  thousand  years  ago  you  might  have 
lived  in  a  house  like  this  and  expected  everybody  all  round  you 
to  knuckle  under  and  do  exactly  what  you  told  them.  You 
certainly  can't  expect  it  now.  You  let  your  houses  to  peo- 
ple, and  you  leave  'em  to  lead  their  own  lives  in  their  own  way. 
If  you  didn't,  you  wouldn't  let  your  houses.  It's  quite  sim- 
ple. Nobody's  going  to  be  bossed  now  by  people  like  us,  and 
I  don't  blame  'em." 

"  Your  remarks  are  quite  beside  the  point,  George,  as  well 
as  being  rather  offensive,"  said  Lady  Wrotham. 


THE  PICNIC  BREAKS  V?  401 

•*  Mr.  Moggcridge  used  to  say  that  it  was  the  age  of  democ- 
racy," said  Lady  Syde.     "  But  there  are  limits." 

"  I  thinic  it's  too  bad,  mother,  the  way  you've  behaved  about 
Mrs.  RedchfFe,"  continued  Wrotham.  "  There's  a  woman 
you  might  have  made  a  real  pal  of.  One  of  the  best.  And 
what's  the  poor  lady  done  ?  Nothing,  but  what  any  of  us 
mightn't  do  to-morrow." 

**  /,  for  one,  should  never  have  thought  of  doing  it, 
George,"  said  Lady  Syde.  "  But  that  is  not  the  point.  The 
RedclifFes  refuse  to  behave  with  ordinary  courtesy  to  your 
mother,  and  it  is  very  awkward  their  being  here  at  all.  They 
ought  to  go.  There  would  be  no  difficulty  in  letting  the 
house.  Under  certain  circumstances  I  might  even  take  it 
myself." 

"  If  they  are  driven  out  of  the  place  you  shall  have  the  first 
ofFer,  Aunt  Henrietta,"  said  Wrotham.  "  But  it's  no  use  ask- 
ing me  to  drive  them  out,  because  I'm  not  going  to  do  it. 
Then  there  are  the  Ferrabys,  mother.  You  told  Mrs.  Fer- 
raby  the  other  day  that  they  weren't  wanted  here.  Really, 
you  know,  that's  a  bit  thick  to  anybody,  and  a  nice  woman 
like  that,  too,  of  all  people !  If  they'd  taken  offence — only, 
of  course,  they  were  sensible  and  only  laughed  at  it — I  might 
have  had  the  shooting  thrown  on  my  hands.  You  oughtn't  to 
do  it,  you  know." 

"  I  didn't  ask  you  to  speak  to  me  in  order  that  I  might 
listen  to  your  strictures  on  my  conduct,  George,"  said  Lady 
Wrotham.  "  I  am  aware  that  the  rent  of  the  shooting  is  a 
consideration,  and  I  suppose  I  must  put  up  with  the  Ferrabys, 
and  be  thankful  that  they  are  not  always  here  and  that  when 
they  are  I  need  see  nothing  of  them  and  their  noisy  friends. 
What  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about  particularly  was  the 
Vicar." 

"  Well,  what's  wrong  with  the  Vicar  r  I  shook  hands  with 
him  going  into  church  the  other  day  and  I  thought  he  seemed  a 


402  EXTON  MANOR 

very  nice  fellow.  Everybody  else  seems  to  think  so  too.  Of 
course,  he's  a  bit  higher  than  you  like — I  know  that — but 
you've  got  to  take  these  parsons  as  they  come.  You  can't 
turn  'em  out.  Nobody  can  turn  'em  out.  I  don't  like  that 
sanctimonious  old  Dr.  Blimey  that  you  got  father  to  put  in  at 
Hurstbury,  but  I  put  up  with  him.  You  must  make  up  your 
mind  to  put  up  with  Prentice." 

"  The  cases  are  entirely  different.  Dr.  Blimey  knows  what 
true  religion  is,  and " 

"  He  knows  what  good  port  is.  But  it's  waste  of  time 
talking  about  Prentice,  because,  if  I  wanted  to,  I  couldn't  shift 
him." 

"  I  have  an  idea,"  said  Lady  Syde.  "  My  brother-in-law 
who  is  a  clergyman  exchanged  livings.  That  can  be  done. 
Why  not  get  Mr.  Prentice  and  Dr. — whatever  his  name  is,  to 
exchange  livings  ?  " 

"  And  have  Mrs.  Prentice  down  at  Hurstbury.  No,  thank 
you.  Aunt  Henrietta.  I'm  not  taking  any.  Now,  there's  a 
disagreeable  woman,  if  you  like !  I  don't  wonder  at  your 
quarrelling  with  her,  mother.  Well,  I  must  be  off.  Good- 
bye, mother ;  good-bye.  Aunt  Henrietta.  See  you  again  pretty 
soon,  I  hope." 

"  Stop,"  cried  Lady  Wrotham.  "  George,  I  have  not  said 
half  I  want  to  say.  There  is  Mr.  Browne,  and  Captain 
Turner,  and  those  vulgar  people  at  the  Lodge.  I  really  can- 
not consent " 

"  Can't  stay  now,  mother.  Make  it  up  with  'em  all,  and 
you'll  be  twice  as  comfortable.  Good-bye."  And  he  was 
gone. 

Lady  Wrotham  looked  at  Lady  Syde.  "  I  might  as  well 
have  saved  my  breath,"  she  said  angrily. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

TROUBLES    AT   THE    VICARAGE 

Mrs.  Prentice,  after  her  brief  experiment  in  unfamiliar 
iheology,  had  returned  with  increased  zest  to  her  lifelong 
opinions,  but  her  return  had  not  brought  peace  to  the  vicar- 
age, nor  to  herself.  When  she  had  eased  herself  of  the  im- 
mediate effects  of  her  rupture  with  Lady  Wrotham  by  an 
almost  hysterical  outburst  of  tears,  which  had  more  of  pas- 
sion and  resentment  in  them  than  of  grief,  she  went  in  to  her 
husband  with  the  air  of  a  proud,  but  much-injured,  woman, 
and  said,  "  William,  I  have  done  with  my  Lady  Wrotham. 
I  will  never  darken  her  doors  again,  and  I  wish  never  to  have 
her  name  mentioned.  I  can  now  see  plainly  that  I  might 
have  spared  myself  all  the  pains  I  have  taken  to  influence 
her.  She  is  infatuated  with  her  own  importance.  Hence- 
forth she  may  go  her  way  and  I  will  go  mine ;  but  for  one 
thing  you  may  rely  upon  me — I  will  use  every  effort  in  my 
power  to  oppose  her  in  her  upsetting  of  everything  we  hold 
sacred.  I  will  spare  myself  no  trouble.  By  night  and  by 
day  I  will " 

"  Oh,  please  stop,"  broke  in  the  Vicar  impatiently.  "  What 
has  happened  ? " 

*'  I  was  going  to  tell  you  what  has  happened.  Lady  Wro- 
tham has  had  the  face  to  take  me  to  task — in  the  most  offen- 
sive way,  and  with  Mrs.  O'Keefe  sitting  there  and  listening 
to  it  all,  and  very  pleased  to  be  listening  to  it  too — she  has 
wormed  herself  into  her  confidence,  and  after  behaving  as  she 
has  done  to  me,  must  needs  in  the  most  underhand  way  make 
mischief  behind  my  back.     But  fortunately  I  arrived   unex- 

403 


404  EXTON  MANOR 

pectedly.  I  have  always  been  suspicious  of  Mrs.  O'Kecfe. 
She " 

"  Perhaps  you  will  leave  Mrs.  O'Keefe  alone  for  the  time, 
and  tell  me,  if  you  want  to  tell  me,  what  it  was  that  Lady 
Wrotham  took  you  to  task  about." 

*'  I  do  not  want  to  tell  you.  It  was  a  mere  nothing,  but  it 
was  the  last  straw.  I  am  not  to  be  domineered  over  ly  Lady 
Wrotham,  or  Lady  anybody  else.  I  hope  I  know  my  posi- 
tion better.     After  all  I  have  done  to  keep   in  with   Lady 

Wrotham  for  the  good  of  the  place  and  all  of  us  in  it 

She  is  very  unpopular ;  nobody  likes  her,  and  I  promise  her 
that  they  shall  like  her  still  less  for  the  future — after  all  I 
have  given  up " 

*'  You  have  no  doubt  given  up  a  great  deal ;  most  of  your 
self-respect,  I  should  think,  amongst  other  things,  and  all 
your  convictions,  and  your  duty  to  me,  if  that  counts  for  any- 
thing." 

Mrs.  Prentice  turned  her  attack.  "  Do  you  think  it  is  be- 
coming in  you,  William,"  she  asked,  "  to  receive  me  in  this 
way,  when  I  come  expressly  to  tell  you  that  we  are  now  again 
at  one  in  all  these  questions,  that  I  will  use  every  nerve  and 
muscle  I  possess  to  fight  with  you,  that " 

"  Oh,  Agatha,  what  transparent  nonsense  it  all  is !  "  cried 
her  husband,  interrupting  her.  He  rose  from  his  seat  and 
began  to  pace  the  floor.  "  Do  you  take  me  for  a  fool,  that 
I  can't  see  through  it  ?  You  have  given  up  everything,  as 
you  very  rightly  say,  to  keep  in  with  Lady  Wrotham  ;  every- 
thing that  as  a  self-respecting  woman  you  ought  not  to  have 
given  up.  Now  you  have  found  that  your  trouble  is  wasted, 
and  that  even  you  cannot  pay  the  price  that  she  wants  for 
her  favour,  you  turn  completely  round,  and  propose  to  do 
what  you  can  to  make  her  life  a  burden  to  her,  just  as  you 
have  made  mine  a  burden  to  me.  There  is  no  more  honesty 
or  Christianity  now  than  there  was  before.     You  are  simply 


TROUBLES  AT  THE  VICARAGE  405 

following  the  dictates  of  malice  and  spite.  I  have  no  wish  to 
receive  you  back  as  an  ally.  I  won't  do  it.  Your  spirit  is 
doing  more  harm  to  my  work  than  all  Lady  Wrotham's  fool- 
ish opposition." 

"  Well,  that  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  hear  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Prentice,  deeply  offended. 

"  Look  here  !  "  He  stopped  at  his  writing-table  and  took 
up  a  letter.  "  I  have  just  received  this  from  Mrs.  Ripton. 
*Mrs.  Prentice  told  me  yesterday  that  Lady  Wrotham  was 
angry  with  me  for  sending  the  children  to  church  on  Sun- 
days, and  that  I  had  better  not  do  it,  or  my  share  of  the 
servants'  laundry  work  would  be  taken  away  from  me.  I 
hopes,  sir,  you  will  understand  that  I  don't  hold  with  her 
ladyship,  but  can't  afFord  to  quarrel  with  her !  *  "  He  threw 
the  letter  on  the  table  again.  "  It  is  all  very  petty  and 
absurd,  of  course.  But  when  I  receive  a  reminder  of  that 
sort  of  the  way  you  have  been  behaving,  and  then  you  come 
in  immediately  full  of  righteous  wrath  against  the  person 
whose  errands  you  have  been  running " 

"  Ah,  that  is  over,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Prentice,  who  had  not 
been  able  to  prevent  the  rising  of  a  hot  flush  on  her  face  as 
the  contents  of  Mrs.  Ripton's  missive  were  being  divulged  to 
her.  "  Of  course,  I  was  mistaken.  I  see  it  now.  With 
the  best  of  intentions,  I  was  mistaken." 

"  Mistaken  in  what  ?  " 

"  In  allowing  myself  to  be  persuaded  that  Catholic  doctrine 
and  practices  were  wrong.  Of  course  it  is  not  so.  I  made 
the  mistake,  and  I  have  suffered  for  it." 

"Then  what  becomes  of  your  foolish  pretence  that  you 
have  given  in  to  Lady  Wrotham  for  the  sake  of  influencing 
her?  By  your  own  showing  you  have  not  attempted 
to  do  so,  and  of  course  nobody  ever  supposed  that  you 
had." 

"  I  think  we  might  make  an  end  of  these  recriminations, 


4o6  EXTON  MANOR 

William ;  they  are  not  dignified.  We  will  let  Lady  Wro- 
tham  go  her  own  way,  and  we  will  go  ours,  as  before." 

"  No,"  said  her  husband  decidedly.  "  If  you  think  that 
I  can  completely  overlook  all  that  has  happened  lately,  and 
that  we  can  go  on,  as  you  say,  as  before,  you  are  mistaken. 
It  is  not  possible.  If  you  had  come  to  me  with  any  signs  of 
contrition  for  your  behaviour,  I  might  have  forgiven  you,  and 
tried  to  help  you  to  get  right.  You  do  no  such  thing.  The 
ideas  you  have  in  your  mind  now  are  just  as  mean  and  base  as 
they  were.  You  have  simply  turned  them  in  another  direc- 
tion. Listen  to  me,  and  don't  speak  until  I  have  done.  I 
will  tell  you  now,  once  for  all,  what  I  think  of  your 
behaviour.  In  all  the  troubles  we  have  been  going  through 
here,  in  the  trouble  that  has  come  to  Mrs.  Redcliffe,  and  the 
way  it  has  destroyed  the  peace  and  the  friendship  of  years,  in 
the  misguided  zeal  of  Lady  Wrotham  and  the  un-Christian 
strife  she  has  brought  into  this  place,  it  is  your  actions  and 
your  attitude  that  have  most  shocked  and  grieved  me.  The 
other  disturbances,  serious  as  they  are,  are  nothing  to  them. 
You  have  always  had  great  infirmities  of  temper.  I  have 
told  you  so  frequently,  and  in  your  better  moods  you  have  not 
denied  it.  You  have  always  been  liable  to  be  actuated  by 
malice  and  resentment,  and  other  unworthy  feelings.  But 
lately  you  have  gone  beyond  all  bounds.  I  have  hardly  known 
you.  It  has  almost  seemed  as  if  you  were  taken  possession 
of  by  some  evil  spirit.     And " 

But  Mrs.  Prentice  could  bear  no  more.  She  rose  and  con- 
fronted him,  quivering  with  rage.  "  How  dare  you  talk  to 
me  in  that  way?"  she  said.  "To  say  that  I — your  wife  — 
am  in  possession  of  an  evil  spirit !  How  dare  you  !  It  is 
the  wickedness  around  me  that  I  have  been  trying  to  fight, 
whicj"  you  are  too  blind  to  see,  and  which  you — yes,  you,  a 
priest — are  taking  part  in.  That  is  where  the  evil  spirit  is. 
Oh,  how  dare  you  say  that  it  J  in  me .?  " 


TROUBi.i  3  AT   THE  VICARAGE  /c; 

The  Vicar  sat  down  at  his  table  and  buried  his  head  in  his 
hands.  "  I  can  only  hope,"  he  said  quietly,  "  that  you  will 
come  to  see  your  faults  in  their  true  light.  There  can  be  no 
confidence  between  us  till  you  do,  and  no  peace  or  satisfaction 
in  this  house.** 

"  Very  well,  then, '  said  Mrs.  Prentice  spitefully,  "  we  must 
go  on  in  the  absurd  way  in  which  we  have  been  going  on 
lately.  A  delightful  state  of  things,  upon  my  word  !  A 
husband  and  wife,  in  a  position  in  which  they  ought  to  be 
looked  up  to,  hardly  speaking  to  one  another.  And  who 
started  that  state  of  things,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  I,  who 
am  politely  told  that  I  am  possessed  of  a  devil  ?  Oh,  no,  not 
at  all." 

"  No,  you  did  not  start  it,"  replied  the  Vicar,  "  but  you 
might  have  stopped  it  at  any  time  you  pleased.  You  may 
stop  it  now  if  you  will  bethink  yourself  and  put  away  all  the 
evil  thoughts  to  which  you  have  given  yourself  over.  Oh, 
Agatha,  you  were  not  always  like  this.  Can't  you  see  how 
wrong  you  are  ?  Can't  you  see  how  you  are  despising  the 
spirit  of  that  religion  of  which  you  are  always  talking? 
Have  you  never  heard  of  humility,  and  penitence,  and  love, 
and " 

"  You  may  keep  that  for  your  next  sermon,"  interrupted 
Mrs.  Prentice  rudely.  "  I  am  not  here  to  be  preached  at. 
All  I  have  to  say  is  that  until  you  apologize  to  me  for  the 
disgraceful  language  you  have  used  to  me,  and  the  abomi- 
nable charge  you  have  brought  against  me,  I  will  have  nothing 
more  to  do  with  you.  Goodness  knows,  there  won't  be 
much  difficulty.  You  have  hardly  spoken  a  civil  word  to 
me  for  the  last  two  months.  I  am  getting  used  to  it.  I  have 
tried  once  or  twice  to  bring  you  to  a  better  frame  of  mind. 
But  I  shall  try  no  more  ;  it  is  useless.  You  must  come  to 
your  senses  by  yourself."  And  with  that  she  left  him,  sus- 
tained presumably  by  her  own  integrity,  for  it  is  difficult  to 


4o8  EXTON  MANOR 

see  what  else  she  had  to  sustain  her.     Her  husband  sat  on, 
with  his  head  in  his  hands,  and  his  heart  as  heavy  as  lead. 

It  grew  little  lighter  as  the  weeks  went  by.  Mrs.  Prentice 
was  as  good  as  her  word,  and  made  no  further  effort  to  bridge 
the  gulf  that  now  gaped  between  them.  She  took  up  once 
more,  and  with  renewed  effort,  her  work  of  directing  such  of 
the  parishioners  of  Exton  as  would  listen  to  her  in  the  ecclesi- 
astical paths  she  would  have  them  follow.  She  worked  furi- 
ously to  this  end,  and  in  all  she  said  and  did,  going  from 
house  to  house  in  the  village,  and  tramping  along  the  dusty 
roads  to  whatever  point  she  judged  she  might  find  material  to 
be  manipulated,  she  showed,  as  plainly  as  if  she  had  cried  it 
aloud,  the  spirit  that  led  her.  Lady  Wrotham  and  Lady 
Wrotham,  and  always  Lady  Wrotham  was  in  her  mind,  and 
often  on  her  tongue.  She  would  have  walked  the  roads  with 
bare  feet  to  induce  one  poor  woman  to  refuse  a  summons  to 
Lady  Wrotham's  weekly  meetings,  and  judged  no  pains  too 
great  to  get  the  refusal  made  in  a  way  that  would  offend  the 
great  lady.  In  her  wilful  and  determined  spite,  she  even 
openly  bribed  some  of  the  mothers  to  defy  Lady  Wrotham  in 
the  matter  of  sending  their  children  to  the  services  to  which 
she  objected.  In  these  matters  she  may  have  persuaded  her- 
self that  she  was  actuated  by  religious  motives,  but  she  per- 
suaded no  one  else.  She  had  never  been  a  favourite  at  the 
best  of  times,  and  her  ministrations  had  been  accepted,  if  at 
all,  because  of  the  temporal  advantages  by  which  they  were 
accompanied,  for  she  had  been  to  considerable  extent  the  dis- 
penser of  Sir  Joseph  Chapman's  local  charities.  This  fact 
had  stood  her  in  better  stead  than  she  had  been  aware  of 
during  her  temporary  alliance  with  Lady  Wrotham.  But 
now  that  she  was  no  longer  the  most  important  lady  in  the 
village,  and  there  was  little  to  be  gained  by  concealing  indi- 
vidual dislike  to  her,  and  little  to  be  lost  by  indulging  in  its 
expression,  opposition  burnt  fiercely  against  her.     Among  the 


TROUBLES  AT  THE  VICARAGE  409 

better  class  of  people  her  treatment  of  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  and  her 
toadying  to  Lady  Wrotham,  which  was  quite  clearly  under- 
stood and  remorselessly  commented  on,  had  gained  her  a  very 
unenviable  reputation,  and  not  a  few  doors  were  shut  upon 
her  by  the  farmers  and  tradespeople.  Old  Mrs.  Witherspoon, 
and  some  others,  before  closing  their  doors,  told  her  exactly 
what  they  thought  of  her,  and  it  was  not  pleasant  hearing. 
Among  the  cottagers  her  success  was  very  little  greater,  and 
the  fact  that  she  was  known  to  object  strongly  to  their  attend- 
ing the  ministrations  of  Lady  Wrotham  did  more  to  crowd 
the  weekly  meetings  at  the  Abbey  than  the  requests  of  Lady 
Wrotham  herself. 

But  still  she  held  on  in  her  insensate  spite  and  bitterness, 
disliked  by  most  of  her  neighbours,  and  despised  by  not  a  few ; 
a  miserable  woman,  if  ever  there  was  one,  but  determined  to 
drink  her  cup  of  rancour  to  the  dregs. 

It  is  possible  to  pity  her,  but  far  more  to  be  pitied  was  hei 
husba.id,  a  good,  ordinary  man,  over  whose  head  the  years 
had  passed  easily,  for  he  had  adapted  himself  to  the  corners 
of  his  wife's  temper  before  they  had  acquired  their  recent 
sharpness,  and  had  plodded  on  with  his  daily  work,  meeting 
with  few  drawbacks  that  could  disturb  him ;  a  man  with  some 
depths  of  truth  and  insight  in  him,  although  those  depths  had 
been  somewhat  overlaid  by  the  conventions  of  his  profession. 
Now  he  began  to  lose  heart.  His  wife's  hot  advocacy  of  the 
religious  views  he  had  spent  his  life  in  inculcating  did  him  far 
more  harm  than  Lady  Wrotham's  open  opposition ;  but  that 
opposition  was  tireless,  although  it  worked  chiefly  beneath  the 
surface.  Lady  Wrotham  had  been  beaten  in  her  attempt  to 
browbeat  him,  she  had  been  beaten  in  the  matter  of  her 
complaint  to  the  bishop,  but  she  was  beating  him  none  the 
less,  slowly  taking  the  life  out  of  all  his  work  amongst  the 
people  over  whom  she  exercised  a  greater  authority  than  his, 
although  he  had  ministered  to  them  for  as  many  years  as  she 


410  EXTON  MANOR 

had  lived  amongst  them  for  weeks.  He  saw  men  and  women 
on  whose  minds  he  thought  he  had  made  an  indelible  mark 
turning  against  him  ;  he  saw  active  opposition  growing  steadily 
in  matters  where  before  there  had  been  nothing  worse  than 
indifference ;  he  was  met  with  argument  by  those  who  had 
listened  obediently  to  instruction.  He  was  no  longer  the 
accepted  teacher  of  his  parishioners ;  in  some  quarters  his 
teaching  was  flouted  and  himself  hardly  treated  with  tolera- 
tion. And  he  had  no  ease,  no  refreshment  in  his  home.  He 
shared  it  with  an  obstinate,  jealous  woman,  whose  determined 
attitude  through  many  weeks  was  of  acid  hostility,  which  at 
times  seemed  to  him  more  than  he  could  bear.  He  was 
tempted  more  than  once  to  give  in  to  her  on  her  own  terms 
and  gain  a  little  of  the  contentment  which  had  gone  out  of 
his  life  by  an  ignominious  surrender.  He  might  have  done  so 
if  her  attitude  had  been  a  little  less  uncompromisingly  offensive, 
for  he  was  not  formed  by  nature  to  fight  without  any  help  or 
sympathy  against  overwhelming  odds,  but  her  contemptuous, 
self-satisfied  manner  would  have  made  it  difficult  to  approach 
her  in  any  case,  and  to  do  so  would  certainly  have  meant  the 
giving  up  of  all  that  was  left  to  him  to  fight  for. 

For  a  few  weeks  after  Whitsuntide  the  only  people  of  his 
own  class  in  Exton  with  whom  he  could  associate  on  friendly 
terms  were  the  Dales.  It  is  possible  that  under  other  circum- 
stances he  would  not  have  seen  much  of  Mr.  Dale,  whose 
views  were  opposed  to  his  own  upon  most  subjects,  and  with 
whom  he  had  little  in  common.  And  Mrs.  Prentice's  treat- 
ment of  the  newcomers  had  earned  her  a  feeling  of  frank  dis- 
like on  their  part,  so  that  anything  like  friendly  intercourse 
between  the  two  houses  was  out  of  the  question.  But  when 
the  Vicar  had  called  at  the  Lodge,  Mr.  Dale,  after  the  first 
few  minutes,  during  which  he  had  been  watchful  and  a  trifle 
suspicious,  had  thawed  into  his  usual  state  of  blustering  geni- 
ality, and  the  Vicar  had  gone  again  to  see  him,  and  then 


TROUBLES  AT  THE  VICARAGE  411 

again,  until  it  became  a  habit  with  him  to  smoke  a  pipe  with 
Mr.  Dale  for  half-an-hour  or  so  every  afternoon  or  evening. 
The  man  was  loud  and  vulgar,  no  doubt,  but  he  was  sure  of 
himself,  and  breathed  an  air  of  bluff  honesty  and  kindliness 
which  the  poor,  harassed  Vicar  found  grateful.  Dependent  as 
he  was  upon  sympathy,  he  came  in  time  to  confide  more  of 
his  troubles  to  Mr.  Dale  than  he  would  at  first  have  thought 
possible,  considering  how  far  apart  they  were  in  their  views 
and  their  training;  and  Mr.  Dale  rose  to  the  occasion  and 
gave  him  much  sound  advice,  and,  what  was  more  to  the 
point,  treated  him  with  unfailing  friendliness. 

"  I  don't  understand  much  about  your  Church,"  he  said  on 
one  occasion  as  they  were  sitting  out  on  the  lawn,  smoking 
two  of  the  special  brand  of  waistcoated  cigars.  "  And  of 
course  I  needn't  tell  you,  Mr. — er,  that  what  I  believe  is 
nearer  to  what  her  ladyship  believes  than  what  you  believe. 
Still,  it  don't  seem  to  me  to  matter  so  much  what  you  teach 
people  as  the  example  you  set  them,  and  it  can't  do  anybody 
any  good  to  see  these  upsets  going  on  round  them  in  the 
name  of  religion.  It  ain't  religion  at  all  j  it's  the  other 
thing." 

"  I  teach  them  what  I  believe  to  be  the  truth,"  said  the 
Vicar,  "  and  I  have  been  here  for  over  twenty  years,  and  have 
seen — I  am  sure  I  have  seen — that  it  has  affected  the  people 
for  good.  Surely  that  is  the  test.  Lady  Wrotham  thinks 
that  anybody  who  holds  the  views  that  I  hold  is  going  straight 
to  perdition,  and  she  says  so  to  everybody  who  will  listen  to 
her.  But  any  one  who  takes  note  of  the  spirit  there  is  in  the 
place  now,  and  compares  it  with  what  there  was  a  few  months 
ago,  must  see  the  difference,  and  how  much  for  the  worse  it 
is.  It  does  not  look  as  if  her  religion  were  right  and  mine 
were  wrong.  It  is  my  only  encouragement  that  my  teaching 
has  borne  so  much  better  fruit." 

**  What's  good  in  her  religion  is  the  same  as  what's  good  in 


412  EXTON  MANOR 

yours,"  returned  Mr.  Dale.  ''  If  you  had  held  her  views 
you'd  have  done  just  as  well,  perhaps  better,  and  there  wouldn't 
have  been  this  upset.  Still,  I  don't  hold  with  the  way  she's 
working  against  you,  whether  she's  right  or  wrong  in  her  doc- 
trines. I've  seen  a  lot  of  harm  come  of  that  in  my  Church — • 
people  who  have  got  the  money  and  the  power,  setting  them- 
selves against  a  minister.  I've  always  backed  up  the  minister 
myself,  and  I've  been  able  to  smooth  things  over  in  that  way 
once  or  twice,  as  I've  had  a  say  in  what  takes  place.  They 
wouldn't  go  against  me  if  they  could  help  it.  Too  much 
money  behind  me.  I  suppose  her  ladyship  has  got  the  power 
to  give  you  notice  if  she  likes  to  exercise  it,  eh  ? " 

"  No,  she  has  not  got  that  power,"  said  the  Vicar  grimly, 
"  although  she  would  very  much  like  to  have  it." 

"  What — the  bishop,  then,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"No,  no  one  has  the  power  to  remove  an  incumbent — at 
least  not  for  any  cause  that  I  should  be  likely  to  give  them. 
A  living  is  the  incumbent's  freehold." 

"  Well,  that  seems  a  funny  thing.     However " 

"I  don't  say  that  I  should  consider  myself  justified  in  keep- 
ing to  my  legal  rights  and  staying  on  in  a  place  where  my  use- 
fulness had  departed.  I  would  not  do  it.  And  I  have  begun 
to  think  that  I  may  have  to  leave  Exton.  I  have  been  bitterly 
disappointed  to  find  that  the  impression  I  thought  I  had  made 
on  my  parishioners,  many  of  whom  have  grown  up  around 
me,  is  not  so  lasting  as  I  had  thought.  If  I  find  that  I  can  no 
longer  influence  them  for  good,  I  shall  go." 

"I  hope  you  won't  do  that,  Mr. — er — Prentice.  You've 
got  friends  here.  I  wish  I  could  do  more  myself.  I  don't 
like  being  in  a  position  where  I  can't  make  myself  felt.  I've 
been  accustomed  to  have  my  say  in  these  matters.  But  there 
don't  seem  to  be  anybody  to  say  it  to  here.  Of  course,  Lady 
Wrotham — well,  she's  Lady  Wrotham.  We  didn't  expect  to 
be  treated  on  equal  terms  with  her  or  people  like  her  when  we 


TROUBLES  AT  THE  VICARAGE  413 

came  here.  We  just  wanted  to  live  quietly,  mother  and  me 
and  the  young  ones,  without  pushing  ourselves  forward.  Her 
ladyship  did  come  up  to  see  mother  and  left  her  a  card.  Mary 
said  it  was  a  friendly  call,  just  as  it  might  be  you  or  me,  and 
mother  ought  to  go  and  return  it.  But  I  don't  know.  We 
never  had  much  to  do  with  ladies  of  title  and  don't  want  to 
specially,  being  quite  contented  as  we  are;  but  I've  been  a 
public  man,  and  shouldn't  hesitate  to  put  myself  against  Lady 
Wrotham  or  anybody  if  I  saw  occasion  for  it — in  a  public 
way,  you  know,  not  private." 

"I  don't  think  you  could  do  much  good  in  these  circum- 
stances, Mr.  Dale,"  said  the  Vicar;  "  but  I  like  to  come  and 
talk  things  over  with  you  occasionally." 

*'  Ay,  and  you're  welcome,  Mr. — er.  You're  welcome  to 
come  here  just  whenever  you  like  and  as  often  as  you  like. 
You  can't  come  too  often  for  me.  And  the  wife  would  say 
the  same  if  she  was  here.  There's  just  one  thing,  talking  of 
the  wife,  that  perhaps  you  won't  mind  my  saying.  I  don't 
think  your  good  lady,  from  what  I've  heard,  is  doing  much  to 
help  you  amongst  the  people  here,  though  she's  working  hard, 
and  I'm  sure  she'd  be  shocked  to  hear  that  she  was  doing 
harm.  But  she's  too  much  against  her  ladyship.  You  see, 
Mr. — er — Prentice,  even  if  her  ladyship  is  wrong,  it — well, 
you  know  what  I  mean,  let  her  alone,  and  go  on  with  what 
you've  got  to  do.  I  believe  that's  the  ticket.  You'll  get  on 
better  that  way." 

"  1  quite  agree  with  you,"  said  the  Vicar. 

*'  You  don't  mind  my  mentioning  it,  do  you  ?  If  you  were 
just  to  give  her  a  hint." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  a  hint  from  me  would  not  be  effective, 
Mr.  Dale.  My  eyes  are  fully  opened  to  what  you  say,  but 
my  wife  and  I  unfortunately  are  not  agreed  on  this  subject. 
I  hope  some  day  that  we  may  be.  And  now  I  must  really  be 
going." 


414  EXTON  MANOR 

Mr.  Dale,  a  little  later  in  the  evening,  took  counsel  with 
Mrs.  Dale. 

"  It's  my  belief,  mother,"  he  said,  "  that  our  good  friend 
must  have  a  lot  to  put  up  with.  That  managing  lady  of  his 
will  manage  him  out  of  the  place  if  she's  not  careful.  I  don't 
think  they  get  on  together.  That's  my  idea  from  something 
he  let  fall." 

Mrs.  Dale  smiled  at  him.  "Why,  father,"  she  said,  "it's 
the  common  talk  of  the  place.  She  won't  have  a  word  to  say 
to  him,  and  if  she  could  smother  Lady  Wrotham  under  a 
feather  bed  she'd  do  it.     She  is  a  terrible  woman." 

"Why,  mother!  I've  never  heard  you  speak  like  that  of 
any  one  before." 

"  I  dare  say  not ;  but  it's  true  all  the  same,  and  very  glad 
I  am  that  Mrs.  Prentice  didn't  take  to  us,  for  if  she  was  to 
come  in  and  see  me  now,  I  should  take  and  show  her  the 
door." 

"  Would  you,  mother  ? "  said  Mr.  Dale  admiringly.  "  Well, 
I  don't  know  but  what  you'd  be  right.  But,  lor',  we  seem  to 
have  come  and  settled  down  in  a  nest  of  hornets." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

LADY   SYDE   INTERVENES 

High  Summer  settled  down  upon  Exton.  The  roses 
bloomed  and  faded,  the  trees  lost  the  freshness  of  Spring  and 
put  on  a  cloak  of  monotonous  green,  the  hay-fields,  shorn  of 
their  luxuriant  growth,  grew  sunburnt.  The  moons  filled  and 
waned,  and  twice  a  day  the  river  flowed  into  its  broad  channel 
and  ebbed  again  to  the  sea.  The  many  dials  of  nature  regis- 
tered the  steady  march  of  time  and  the  passing  of  men's  lives, 
so  active  and  anxious  in  the  minutes,  flowing  and  ebbing  to 
quick  joy  or  sorrow,  so  level  in  the  months,  with  recurrent 
crises  welded  into  an  even  progression,  and  individual  life  itself 
of  little  account  when  merged  in  the  long  tale  of  years,  or 
thrown  into  the  aggregate  of  lives  with  which  it  intermixes. 
What  mattered  the  little  problems  and  upheavals  that  troubled 
the  few  souls  with  which  we  have  concerned  ourselves  to 
those  who  lived  around  them  ?  The  Manor  of  Exton  sup- 
ported some  hundreds  of  people,  who  tilled  the  ground  and 
reaped  the  harvests,  bought  and  sold,  laughed  and  wept,  loved 
and  hated,  lived  their  lives  and  were  swept  away  at  the  end  of 
them,  with  nothing  left  behind  of  all  their  thoughts  and  activ- 
ities that  could  keep  their  memory  green  for  more  than  a  few 
short  years.  Perhaps  the  chief  effect  upon  them  of  the  dis- 
turbances which  had  followed  Lady  Wrotham's  arrival  in  Ex- 
ton was  that  it  gave  them  something  to  talk  about  which  inter- 
ested them,  and  so  the  pleasures  of  the  many  balanced  the 
difficulties  of  the  few  and  the  compensating  pendulum  of  com- 
mon life  swung  as  truly  as  before. 

And  so  in  a  smaller  way  the  absorbing  business  of  each 
day  smoothed  over  the  difficulties  that  were  exercising  the 

415 


4i6  EXTON  MANOR 

chief  characters  in  our  story.  Even  Mrs.  Prentice,  obsessed 
with  a  devouring  passion,  had  to  eat  and  drink,  sleep  and 
wake  and  clothe  herself,  manage  her  household  and  engage 
in  various  outside  duties  that  were  not  all  directed  to  the 
end  she  chiefly  had  in  view  at  this  time;  and  there  were 
times  in  which  her  husband,  in  spite  of  the  growing  dis- 
comfort of  his  life,  forgot  his  troubles  in  a  book,  took 
pleasure  in  his  garden  or  in  the  summer  woods  and  fields, 
was  uplifted  in  his  religious  duties,  or  lost  sight  of  his  own 
difficulties  in  dealing  with  those  of  his  parishioners.  And  so 
with  Lady  Wrotham,  living  alone  in  her  great  house,  and  not 
at  all  pleased  with  the  way  things  were  going  on  around 
her,  applying  herself  as  far  as  she  could,  and  day  after  day, 
to  bend  circumstances  to  her  own  will,  the  days  and  weeks 
passed  and  she  endured  them,  living  through  a  great  pro- 
portion of  her  hours  in  the  way  she  had  always  lived  them. 
At  the  end  of  her  life  this  troubled  year  would  not  stand 
out  conspicuously  different  from  the  rest  of  her  years.  The 
common  everyday  duties  and  occupations  would  smooth 
down  the  roughness,  as  light,  persistent  sea  ripples  wash 
smooth  the  children's  sand  castles,  even  before  the  heavy  tide 
covers  them. 

But  certainly,  at  this  time,  she  could  not  have  called 
herself  happy.  The  difference  between  what  her  life  was  at 
Exton  and  what  she  had  hoped  it  would  be  was  sufficiently 
marked.  During  those  few  weeks  after  Whitsuntide,  when 
she  was  left  to  herself,  she  would  drive  out  in  the  afternoon, 
past  the  White  House,  its  windows  curtained  and  the  wealth 
of  roses  in  its  garden  wasting  their  fragrance,  past  the 
closed  house  in  the  village  which  Norah  O'Keefe  had  for- 
saken for  the  excitements  of  London,  past  the  gate  of  the 
vicarage  which  she  had  never  entered,  and  the  Lodge  which 
she  never  intended  to  enter  again.  She  would  drive  into 
the  forest  and  see  the  Forest  Lodge  standing  silent  and  empty 


LADY  SYDE  INTERVENES  417 

against  its  background  of  trees,  or  up  through  the  woods 
behind  the  Abbey  where  the  smoke  of  Turner's  house  rose 
into  the  air,  two  other  houses  which  she  also  told  herself 
she  would  never  enter,  but  gained  no  satisfaction  from  the 
telling.  And  sometimes  she  would  meet  Mrs.  Prentice  in 
the  village  or  on  the  country  roads,  and  that  lady  would 
stare  at  her  rudely  with  the  corners  of  her  mouth  drawn 
down  and  her  nostrils  breathing  defiance ;  or  the  Vicar 
would  pass  her  and  raise  his  hat  gravely  and  without  a 
smile ;  or  one  of  the  numerous  Dale  family,  very  obviously 
enjoying  themselves  as  if  the  place  belonged  to  them.  She 
could  not  escape  these  small  annoyances,  and  they  affected 
her  spirits  and  darkened  her  thoughts. 

Turner  and  Browne  came  back  after  a  fortnight,  and 
she  asked  Browne  to  dine  with  her.  But  he  made  an  excuse 
and  she  did  not  ask  him  again.  The  RedclifFes  prolonged 
their  visit  to  Warwickshire  and  Norah  O'Keefe  stayed  in 
London  until  the  end  of  July.  Summer  holiday-makers  began 
to  come  into  Exton,  on  brakes  and  bicycles  and  motor-cars. 
They  filled  the  luncheon-room  of  the  inn  on  most  days,  hung 
about  the  bridge  and  inspected  the  ruins  of  the  Abbey.  But 
with  all  the  coming  and  going  and  the  life  in  the  village 
and  on  the  land,  there  was  an  air  of  desertion  in  the  place 
to  those  who  knew  it.  Lady  Wrotham  had  relations  and 
intimate  friends  staying  with  her  from  time  to  time,  but 
not  many  of  them,  and  her  life  undoubtedly  was  a  dull  one, 
and  she,  for  a  woman  with  such  activity  of  mind,  had  cause 
for  depression. 

At  the  beginning  of  August  the  tide  of  affairs  once  more 
began  to  flow.  The  Ferrabys  came  down  to  the  Forest 
Lodge  with  another  party  of  guests,  whose  object  was  to 
get  as  much  amusement  as  possible  out  of  Cowes  Regatta. 
Norah  O'Keefe  came  back  with  them,  and  the  RedclifFes 
returned    about  the  same  time  to  the  White  House.     At  a 


4i8  -       EXTON  MANOR 

few  hours'  notice,  too,  Lord  Wrotham  came  to  pay  his 
mother  another  visit,  not,  she  supposed,  for  the  sole  pleasure 
it  afforded  him  to  be  with  her. 

He  came  about  half-an-hour  before  dinner-time.  "  I  sup- 
pose," she  said  when  she  had  greeted  him,  "  that  I  am  not 
to  have  the  honour  of  seeing  very  much  of  you,  George. 
Are  you  dining  here  to-night?  " 

"  Yes,  mother,"  he  said.  "  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with 
you." 

He  was  lounging  in  an  easy-chair  opposite  to  her  own, 
but  got  up  and  began  to  pace  the  floor,  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets.  He  could  never  sit  still  for  very  long  in  one 
place  and  this  was  his  usual  habit.  But  there  was  some- 
thing in  his  manner  that  was  not  usual.  She  threw  a  quick 
glance  at  him  and  saw  him  disturbed,  a  look  of  anxiety  on 
his  young  pleasant  face,  which  was  generally  so  cheerful 
and  alert.  "  I  must  go  up-stairs  now,"  she  said.  "  But 
we  can  talk  after  dinner."  He  accompanied  her  to  the  door 
of  the  room  and  opened  it  for  her.  He  was  usually  careless 
of  these  little  attentions.  She  wondered  what  he  could  have 
to  say  to  her. 

She  was  a  little  surprised  when  the  object  of  his  visit 
was  disclosed  to  her  later  in  the  evening.  He  was  in  anxiety 
as  to  money.  Her  own  income  was  a  large  one,  and  she  had 
already  helped  him  in  difficulties  that  had  arisen  during  the 
adjustment  of  his  own  and  his  father's  affairs.  But  he  had 
not  approached  her  with  the  diffidence  which  sat  on  him 
now.  He  had  asked  her  airily  for  money,  and  taken  it  with 
no  more  than  perfunctory  thanks. 

*'  You  ought  not  to  be  in  difficulties  again  so  soon, 
George,"  she  said.  "  I  made  things  perfectly  easy  for  you 
six  months  ago.  You  cannot  expect  to  spend  just  as  much 
as  you  wish  to  while  the  duties  are  being  paid  off.  You 
ought  to  adjust  your  expenditure." 


LADY  SYDE  INTERVENES  419 

"  I  know,  mother,"  he  said.  "  But  I  want  to  get  straight. 
I'd  live  quietly  and  pay  you  back  what  you  lend  me." 

"  You  know  I  should  not  ask  you  to  do  that.  I  will  give 
you  what  you  ask  for.  But  I  should  like  to  know  why  you 
are  obliged  to  ask  me  for  such  a  large  sum." 

"  I  suppose  you  know  pretty  well,"  he  said.  "  Racing, 
chiefly.     And  I've  lent  a  lot  of  money  which  I  can't  get  back." 

He  spoke  so  dejectedly  that  the  reproaches  which  were 
on  her  lips  were  not  uttered.  "  To  whom  have  you 
lent  money  ? "  she  asked.  "  And  why  cannot  you  get  it 
back  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  you  know  that  pretty  well  too,"  he  replied. 

Her  face  became  angry.  "  Is  it  Laurence  ? "  she  asked 
sharply. 

He  nodded. 

"  George  ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  Why  will  you  make  a  friend 
of  Laurence  f  Surely  you  must  have  found  out  his  selfish- 
ness and  badness  by  this  time  !  I  have  implored  you  time 
and  again  not  to  do  so.  He  will  be  the  ruin  of  you,  as  it  is 
well  known  he  has  been  the  ruin  of  other  younger  men  than 
himself  whom  he  sponges  on.  He  is  no  fit  companion  for 
you.  He  makes  what  use  he  can  of  you  and  thinks  only 
of  himself  all  the  time.  He  would  throw  you  over  to-morrow 
if  he  thought  it  was  to  his  advantage  to  do  so.  Why  cannot 
you  make  up  your  mind  to  break  with  him  ?  You  must  do 
so  once  and  for  all.  I  will  not  help  you  now  unless  you 
give  me  your  promise." 

"  I've  done  that  already,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  want  to  have 
anything  more  to  do  with  the  fellow,  confound  him  ! " 

Lady  Wrotham  showed  her  astonishment.  "  You  have 
quarrelled  with  him ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  Is  it  about  this 
money  that  he  owes  you  ?  " 

"  No.  He's  welcome  to  the  money.  I  shall  never  see  it 
i^ain,  and  I  never  expected  that  I  should." 


420  EXTON  MANOR 

"  Well,  what  is  it  about,  then  ?  " 

He  sprang  up  and  began  to  pace  the  room.  ''  It  doesn't 
matter  what  it  is  about,"  he  said.  "  I  won't  have  anything 
more  to  do  with  him." 

She  looked  at  him  irresolutely,  uncertain  whether  to  ques- 
tion him  further.  Something  in  his  appearance  aroused  her 
solicitude.  He  looked  worried  and  anxious.  "  If  there  is 
anything  that  troubles  you,"  she  said,  "  I  wish  you  would  tell 
me.     I  should  like  to  help  you,  if  I  can." 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  room  with  his  eyes  on  the 
ground.  Some  surviving  instinct  of  his  boyhood  urged  him  to 
confide  in  his  mother,  to  whom  he  had  had  no  intention  of 
telling  what  was  in  his  mind. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you'll  be  pleased  or  annoyed,"  he 
said  jerkily.  "  I've  met  the  woman  I  want  to  marry.  You've 
said  for  the  last  few  years  that  you  would  like  to  see  me  married." 

She  was  taken  aback,  and  an  uneasy  memory  rose  to  her 
mind. 

"  It  is  not — not  any  one  living  here  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Yes  it  is.  I  expect  you  know.  And  Laurence — con- 
found him — he's  doing  all  he  can  against  me — I  don't  believe 
he  wants  her  himself.  I'm  hanged  if  I  believe  he  wants  her, 
though  I  did  think  he  did  at  first.  He's  not  the  sort  of  chap 
to  marry  where  there  isn't  a  lot  of  money.  He's  told  me  he 
wouldn't,  dozens  of  times.  Then  why  can't  he  leave  her 
alone  and  let  me  have  my  chance  ?  I  believe  it  would  be  a 
good  one  if  it  wasn't  for  him." 

Lady  Wrotham  had  listened  to  this  speech  with  mixed  feel- 
ings, surprise  in  the  end  overcoming  disappointment.  "  Who 
are  you  talking  of?  "  she  asked.  "I  thought  you  meant  Miss 
RedclifFe." 

He  laughed  a  little  ruefully.  "  No,  I  don't  mean  Miss 
RedclifFe,"  he  said.  "  She's  a  charming  girl,  but  I  believe 
she's  booked  already.     I  mean  Norah  O'Keefe, 


LADY  SYDE  INTERVENES  421 

Lady  Wrotham  was  unfeignedly  surprised.  She  hardly 
knew  whether  to  be  encouraging  or  antagonistic.  But  the 
feeling  which  Norah  had  aroused  in  her  mind  when  she  had 
first  seen  her  renewed  itself  and  brought  pleasure  with  it  un- 
bidden. 

"  You  surprise  me  very  much,  George,**  she  said.  "  I  did 
not  know  that  you  had  seen  much  of  Mrs.  O'Keefe.  You 
did  not  know  her  before  I  came  here,  did  you  ? " 

"  No.  But  I  saw  a  lot  of  her  when  I  came  down  here  at 
Whitsuntide,  and  she  has  been  in  town  ever  since.  I  tell  you, 
mother,  it's  serious  this  time.  Really,  sometimes  I  feel  des- 
perate about  it.  I  can't  do  anything  for  thinking  of  her.  And 
you've  no  idea  what  she's  like.  I'm  sure  you'd  love  her  like 
anything,  yourself,  if  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  marry  her, 
and  she'd  make  a  jolly  good  wife  and  do  everything  she  ought 
to  wherever  we  settled  down.  I  wish  to  goodness  things 
would  go  right.'* 

"  I  do  know  her  a  little,'*  said  Lady  Wrotham.  "  It  is  not 
the  sort  of  marriage  I  have  ever  had  in  my  mind  for  you, 
George,  and  I  must  take  a  little  time  to  get  used  to  the  idea. 
But  I  will  not  say  anything  against  it,  if  you  are  really  in 
earnest.  I  should  be  very  displeased,  for  her  sake,  if  I  thought 
that  you  were  simply  amusing  yourself  with  her." 

Her  tone  said  more  than  her  words.  He  had  an  impulse 
of  gratitude  towards  her.  "  Oh,  mother ! "  he  said,  "  you 
needn't  talk  about  my  being  in  earnest.  I'm  in  deadly  earnest. 
I  wish  you  could  do  something  to  help  me." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  am  prepared  to  do  anything  to  help 
you.  I  must  think  it  over.  Certainly  I  have  nothing  against 
her;  but  unfortunately  she  does  think  that  she  has  something 
against  me,  and  if  I  would  I  don't  know  that  I  could  help 
you." 

"But  surely  you  wouldn't  let  these  little  local  squabbles 
stand  in  the  way,  when  there's  so  much  at  stake." 


422  EXTON  MANOR 

''That  is  hardly  the  way  to  describe  what  has  been  going 
on  here.  And,  as  far  as  the  affair  with  Mrs.  Redcliffe  goes, 
I  have  tried  to  put  an  end  to  it,  and  without  success.  I  can 
make  no  further  efforts  in  that  direction.  My  overtures  have 
been  rejected.  I  can  only  hope  that  Mrs.  Redcliffe  and  her 
daughter,  since  they  will  not  make  friends  with  me,  will  see 
the  advisability  of  going  elsewhere.  Then  I  do  not  know  that 
there  would  be  anything  against  my  making  friends  with  Mrs. 
O'Keefe,  which,  for  my  part,  I  should  be  pleased  to  do.  But 
what  did  you  mean  just  now  when  you  mentioned  Miss  Red- 
cliffe ? " 

"  Oh,  I  think  Frankie  Redcliffe,  her  cousin,  wants  to  marry 
her.     He'll  have  a  jolly  good  wife,  if  she'll  take  him." 

"  Oh  !     Have  you  heard  if  there  is  an  engagement  ?  '* 

"No,  not  definitely." 

"  I  believe  they  have  come  back  here.** 

"  Have  they  ?  Well,  look  here,  mother,  what  am  I  to  do  ? 
She  came  down  here  yesterday,  and  I  thought  I'd  come  down 
too  and  see  how  I  got  on.  But  the  Ferrabys  are  here,  and 
hanged  if  Laurence  hasn't  invited  himself  there  and  come 
down  with  them.  I'm  sick  of  it.  I  can't  get  rid  of  him.  I 
had  it  out  with  him  a  week  ago.  Hang  it,  I've  done  a  good 
deal  for  him,  one  way  and  another,  and  he  ought  to  clear  out 
and  leave  the  field  open.     I  told  him  so." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"  He  was  infernally  offensive.  I  don't  know  any  fellow 
that  can  make  himself  more  pleasant  than  he  can,  or  as  disa- 
greeable either.  He  told  me  to  clear  out  myself  and  that  I 
was  annoying  him  by  getting  in  his  way.  I  lost  my  temper 
at  that,  because  he  spoke  just  as  if — well,  at  any  rate,  I  want 
to  marry  her,  and  I  don't  believe  he  wants  anythfng  of  the 
sort,  and  the  way  he  spoke — I  don't  know,  it  simply  put  me 
in  a  rage — for  her  sake,  I  mean.  Good  heavens !  When  I 
think  of  her  just  as  if  she  was  an  angel,  or  something  of  that 


LADY  SYDE  INTERVENES  4S| 

sort — and  to  know  that  he's  running  after  her  just  to  amuse 
himself.     I  hate  the  fellow,  and  I've  done  with  him." 

"  He  is  a  wicked  man,  selfish  and  bad  through  and  through. 
I  am  glad  that  you  have  been  brought  to  see  it  at  last*  But 
what  about  her,  George  ?     Cannot  she  see  it  too  ?  ** 

"  No.  To  do  the  beast  justice  he  can  be  as  fascinating  as 
it  is  possible  for  a  fellow  to  be.  Even  men  feel  it  j  I've  felt 
it  myself,  as  you  know ;  and  as  for  women,  I  don't  believe 
there's  one  of  them  could  resist  him  if  he  set  his  mind 
to  it." 

Lady  Wrotham  snorted ;  there  is  no  other  word  that  would 
indicate  the  noise  she  produced.  "Indeed,"  she  said,  **I 
think  you  exaggerate  his  attractions.  There  must  be  very 
many  women  who  would  see  through  him  at  once  and  only  be 
repelled  by  him.'* 

*'  I  don't  think  so,  modier  s  not  young  women.  Why 
should  they  ?  She  doesn't  for  one.  I  don't  believe  she  really 
cares  for  him,  but  I  think  she's  fascinated.  I  don't  believe 
there's  a  chance  for  me  till  he's  out  of  the  way." 

"  I  think,  George,  if  you  are  really  in  earnest,  you  should 
try  your  chance.  If  she  can  prefer  Laurence  to  you  she  is 
not  what  I  take  her  to  be.  You  might  find — I  hope  you  would 
— that  you  were  quite  mistaken." 

"  No,  mother.  It's  no  good.  She's  very  friendly  and  all 
that,  but  there's  nothing  more.  I  should  only  look  a  fool. 
She'd  have  nothing  to  say  to  me  now.  I  know  that  as  well  as 
anything.  Well,  it's  of  no  use  grousing  about  it.  I  must 
wait  my  time.  She'll  be  here  now  for  some  time  and  he  can't 
always  be  here.  Only  I'm  afraid  of  what  will  happen.  Upon 
my  word  I  am  afraid." 

Lady  Wrotham  became  thoughtful.  "  I  think  perhaps," 
she  said  presently, "  that  something  may  b«  done.  I  will 
think  over  it,  George.  You  must  leave  me  to  think  over  it. 
What  you  have  said  has  surprised  me,  and  I  must  collect  my 


^4  EXTON  MANOR 

thoughts.  But  I  think  on  the  whole  I  am  glad  to  hear  your 
news.  I  cannot  say  more  than  that  now.  But  we  will  talk  of 
it  again,  and  I  do  not  think  that  you  need  lose  heart." 

"  What  can  you  do,  mother  ?  *'  he  asked.  *'  I  don't  see 
what  you  can  do." 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  that  yet.  But  you  may  believe  that  I 
will  do  what  I  can  to  help  you." 

"  But  you'll  do  something.  You  have  got  an  idea  in  your 
mind.     You'll  try  to  do  something." 

"  Yes,  I  will.  And  now  we  must  go  into  the  hall  for 
prayers.     It  is  ten  o'clock." 

The  invaluable  Riddell  found  her  mistress  disinclined  for 
conversation  as  she  prepared  her  that  evening  for  her  nightly 
slumbers.  She  had  collected  various  scraps  of  information 
during  the  day  with  which  to  regale  those  august  ears.  She 
had  heard  that  Mrs.  O'Keefe  had  returned  to  her  little  house 
at  Exton  and  expressed  herself  immediately  as  dissatisfied  with 
its  dimensions,  and  had  said  further  that  she  still  liked  living 
in  the  country  occasionally  but  was  no  longer  sure  that  she 
cared  to  bury  herself  completely  from  one  end  of  the  year  to  the 
other  ;  also  that  Miss  RedclifFe  had  regained  the  high  spirits  for 
which  she  had  been  noted  before  the  late  troubles  had  subdued 
them,  and  had  let  fall  something  which  might  reasonably  be  in- 
terpreted as  meaning  that  she  and  her  mother  would  not  re- 
main much  longer  at  the  White  House  ;  also  that  young  Mr. 
Prentice  had  come  into  a  large  fortune  and  was  already  begin- 
ning to  spend  it,  that  Mrs.  Prentice  had  gone  up  to  London  to 
stay  a  night  with  him,  as  he  refused  under  existing  circum- 
stances to  come  to  Exton  and  stay  a  night  with  her ;  also  that 
the  Vicar  had  told  Mr.  Browne  that  he  should  have  to  leave 
Exton,  and  that  Mr.  Browne  had  said  that  he  should  probably 
have  to  leave  too;  with  various  other  scraps  concerning  the 
party  at  Forest  Lodge,  the  sayings  of  the  Dale  family,  and  a 


LADY  SYDE  INTERVENES  425 

few  sifted  fragments  of  village  gossip  which  altogether  made  a 
more  than  usually  rich  feast.  But  the  great  lady  had  retired 
into  her  own  thoughts,  and  her  ears  were  closed  to  Riddell's 
tentative  offerings,  and  Riddell  was  far  too  wise  to  set  forth  a 
banquet  for  which  her  mistress  had  no  appetite. 

Lady  Wrotham  had  much  to  think  about.  Perhaps  one  of 
her  chief  desires  was  to  see  her  son  married  and  to  hold  his 
children  on  her  knees.  She  was  ambitious  for  her  husband's 
family.  She  had  married  not  very  early  in  life  and  her  only 
child  had  not  been  born  until  ten  years  after  her  marriage,  at  a 
time  when  the  birth  of  an  heir  had  almost  begun  to  be  de- 
spaired of.  He  had  been  delicate  in  the  early  years,  and  al- 
though he  had  now  outgrown  his  childish  weakness,  the  fears 
and  anxieties  of  thirty  years  before  had  left  their  mark  upon 
her.  And,  to  strengthen  her  natural  desire  to  see  his  children 
growing  up  to  continue  the  long  line  of  his  ancestors,  was  the 
ever  present  and  growing  dislike  of  Laurence  Syde,  who  would 
succeed  him  if  he  did  not  marry  and  beget  a  son.  She  hated 
Laurence  Syde  with  all  her  powers  of  hatred,  and  would  al- 
most have  welcomed  any  marriage,  however  unsuitable,  if  it 
held  out  the  hope  of  offspring. 

She  had  told  herself,  when  he  had  disclosed  his  desires  to 
her,  that  it  would  need  careful  thought  on  her  part  before  she 
could  make  up  her  mind  to  accept  Norah  O'Keefe  as  a  pos- 
sible bride  for  her  son.  It  was  not  the  sort  of  marriage  she  had 
looked  forward  to  for  him.  She  would  have  liked  him  to 
marry  a  young  girl,  of  high  birth,  and  preferably  with  a  big 
dower,  not  a  widow  with  a  small  income  of  her  own,  which 
for  all  she  knew  might  not  even  continue  if  she  married  again. 
But  now  she  found,  when  she  set  herself  to  consider  the 
question,  that  it  had  already  decided  itself  in  her  mind.  When 
Norah  O'Keefe  had  walked  into  her  room  a  month  or  two  be- 
fore, she  had  walked  straight  into  her  heart,  and  the  estrange- 
ment which  had  immediately  followed,  had  not  sufficed  to  dc' 


426  EXTON  MANOR 

pose  her  image.  She  found  her  heart  throwing  out  strong  ten- 
tacles to  draw  the  girl  to  her.  The  lover's  desire  of  her  son 
reflected  itself  in  her  own  feelings,  and  aroused  an  excite- 
ment in  her  mind  which  was  something  more  than  the 
shadow  of  his.  That  question  had  settled  itself  and  need 
not  be  discussed.  It  would  give  her  keen  pleasure  to  re- 
ceive Norah  as  her  daughter-in-law  and  to  yield  up  what 
rights  she  still  retained  to  her.  Then  she  must  think  of  how 
she  could  help  him  to  gain  his  happiness  and  hers.  Her 
mother's  heart,  which  beat  warmly  for  him  underneath  all  the 
friction  and  disappointment  that  had  overlaid  their  relationship, 
was  stirred  by  his  appeal  to  her.  He  had  thrown  off  her  in- 
fluence and  derided  her  authority  j  she  had  been  nothing  in 
his  life  for  many  years,  except  an  annoyance,  and  he  had 
shown  her  that  it  was  so.  But  now  he  had  come  to  her  for 
help,  just  as  he  had  come  to  her  believing  in  her  power  to  dis- 
perse his  childish  troubles  and  relying  on  her  to  do  so,  and  if 
she  could  she  would  show  that  he  had  done  right  to  come  to 
her.  She  would  give  him  what  he  wanted,  and  when  he  had  at- 
tained his  happiness  he  would  owe  it  to  her,  and  there  would  be 
peace  and  aflFection  between  them  as  in  the  old  days.  So  the 
future  pictured  itself  to  her  and  refreshed  her  present  loneliness. 
Could  she  go  to  Norah  and  open  out  her  heart  to  her  and 
plead  for  her  son  ?  How  would  she  be  received  ?  She  made 
light  of  what  had  already  passed  between  them.  She  had  an 
idea,  gained  she  scarcely  knew  whence,  though  it  had  actually 
come  to  her  through  Riddell's  gossip,  that  Norah  was 
not  quite  so  friendly  as  she  had  been  with  the  RedclifFes. 
She  did  not  think  that  that  obstacle  to  intimacy  would  prove 
insurmountable,  and  it  did  not  trouble  her  in  her  softer  mood 
that  she  would  have  to  give  up  something  of  her  autocratic 
habit  by  taking  such  a  step.  But  she  felt  that  the  time  was 
not  ripe  for  it.  She  might  destroy  George's  chances  alto- 
gether.    He  had  said  that  he  could  not  approach  her  himself 


LADY  SYDE  INTERVENES  427 

now  with  any  hope  of  success,  and  he  would  not  be  diffident 
in  such  matters  unless  with  strong  reason.  No,  she  could  not 
do  that.  It  was  Laurence,  the  hated  Laurence  who  stood  in 
the  way,  and  she  burned  to  confound  his  knavish  tricks  and 
destroy  him  utterly. 

She  thought  long  over  the  question,  made  plans  and  rejected 
them,  and  touched  the  dark  waters  of  impotence  more  than 
once  in  her  gropings.  She  hated  him,  but  she  was  powerless 
to  affect  him  by  her  hatred.  Then  suddenly  the  light  shone. 
She  could  do  nothing  to  hamper  his  movements  herself,  but 
there  was  some  one  else  who  could.  He  was  dependent  on 
his  stepmother,  and  Lady  Syde  could,  if  she  would,  influence 
him  by  the  cold  power  of  the  purse.  Could  she  be  persuaded 
to  do  so  ?  Lady  Wrotham  thought  that  she  might,  and  she 
determined  to  use  every  effort  to  induce  her  to  use  her  power. 
It  was  fortunate  that  Lady  Syde  at  this  time  was  staying  with 
her  nephew,  Richard  Baldock,  at  Beechhurst,  not  many  miles 
away.  She  would  send  her  a  telegram  and  drive  over  to  see 
her  the  next  day.  It  would  be  a  very  long  drive  there  and 
back,  but  she  could  manage  it  by  starting  early  and  resting  for 
some  hours  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  and  she  would  not  shrink 
from  the  fatigue. 

Her  mind  lightened.  She  had  a  plan  and  could  yet  show 
that  George  had  done  well  to  consult  her.  She  threw  off  the 
weight  of  anxious  thought  and  turned  an  ear  to  Riddell,  who 
was  enabled  to  ply  her  with  the  more  important  dishes  of  her 
banquet  before  she  finally  retired  to  rest. 

Fortune  smiled  on  her  the  next  morning,  for  she  had  a  note 
from  Lady  Syde  announcing  her  intention  of  motoring  over  to 
Exton  to  luncheon.  Wrotham  was  away  yachting  with  the 
Ferrabys,  and  the  two  ladies  were  alone  together.  Lady 
Wrotham  disclosed  her  news  after  luncheon,  but  waited  to 
know  what  her  sister-in-law  had  to  say  before  making  the  re- 
quest that  she  had  determined  to  make. 


428  EXTON  MANOR 

"That  is  indeed  rather  startling  news,"  said  Lady  Syde. 
"  And  you  are  not  displeased,  Sarah  ?  You  would  like  him  to 
marry  her  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  should,"  said  Lady  Wrotham.  "  I  was  not  sure 
at  first.     But  she  is  in  every  way  worthy  of  the  position." 

"  You — er — have  not  got  on  very  well  with  her  so  far,  have 
you?" 

**  Matters  stand  much  as  they  did  when  I  told  you  of  all 
that  had  happened  here;  but  I  believe  the  RedclifFe  girl  is 
going  to  be  married,  and  the  RedclifFes  will  not  be  here  much 
longer,  and " 

"You  will  be  pleased  at  that.  Who  is  she  going  to 
marry  ? " 

**They  have  been  staying  with  Sir  Francis  RedclifFe  in 
Warwickshire  and  I  believe  she  is  engaged  to  him.  That  is 
what  I  hear.  It  will  be  a  good  match  for  her.  I  wish  that  I 
had  been  able  to  be  on  friendly  terms  with  them.  I  should 
have  taken  an  interest  in  the  affair.  However,  that  is  not  to 
be  thought  of,  and  I  hope  it  is  true  that  they  are  both  going. 
I  think  there  is  rather  less  intimacy  between  them  and  Mrs. 
O'Keefe  than  there  used  to  be.  I  own  I  was  very  much 
afraid  that  it  was  this  Miss  RedclifFe  whom  George  had  been 
attracted  by.  There  were  indications  that  it  was  so,  and  I 
dare  say  if  he  paid  her  attentions,  which  he  did  do,  and  then 
left  her  for  the  other,  that  might  account  for  their  not  being 
such  good  friends.  At  any  rate  I  do  not  think  she  would  re- 
fuse me  if  I  approached  her  now,  but  I  do  not  think  it  would 
be  of  any  use  at  present  because — and  this  is  what  I  want  to 
tell  you,  Henrietta — Laurence  is  pursuing  her,  for  what  reason 
I  would  rather  not  ask  myself — I  do  not  think  it  can  be  a  good 
one — and  from  what  George  told  me,  I  believe  he  has  suc- 
ceeded In  captivating  her  attention,  if  not  more  than  that." 

"  Laurence  !     But  she  is  not  rich,  is  she  ?  " 

"  She  can  hardly  be  rich  from  the  way  in  which  she  lives. 


LADY  SYDE  INTERVENES  429 

Two  thousand  a  year  at  the  very  outside.  Probably  much 
less." 

"  But  Laurence  could  not  possibly  marry  any  one  wit^  only 
two  thousand  a  year.     At  least  he  would  not." 

Lady  Wrotham's  eyes  burned.  "  I  do  not  think  he  has  the 
least  intention  of  marrying  her.  He  would  be  very  glad,  no 
doubt,  to  prevent  George  from  marrying  her,  or  from  marry- 
ing at  all,  if  he  could.  And  there  are  other  reasons  why  a 
man  like  Laurence  might  pursue  a  beautiful  woman.  We 
need  not  go  into  that.  He  and  George  have  quarrelled,  and  I 
am  unfeignedly  glad  of  it.     But " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  she  prefers  Laurence  to 
George  ?  Very  few  women  would,  with  all  George  has  to 
ofFer." 

"  She  might  not  consider  that,  if  Laurence  had  thrown  her 
ofF  her  balance.  She  is  very  young  and  has  not  seen  much 
of  the  world.  We  know — I  don't  like  to  acknowledge  it,  but 
it  is  so — that  Laurence  has  the  power  to  attract  women.  He 
has  proved  it,  to  their  hurt,  before  this.  But  I  do  say,  Hen- 
rietta, that  it  is  a  shocking  thing  that  this  should  be  going  on. 
George  is  in  earnest  about  it.  He  is  very  much  in  love  with 
her,  and  she  would  make  him  a  good  wife.  And  if  Laurence 
were  out  of  the  way,  I  have  no  doubt  that  she  would  accept 
him.  I  can  hardly  doubt  it.  George  is  very  attractive  too, 
of  course  in  a  quite  different  way,  and  he  has,  as  you  say, 
much  to  offer.  And  think  of  what  the  end  may  be  if  Laurence 
does  not  want  to  marry  her,  but  still  lays  siege  to  her.  It  is 
dreadful  to  think  of,  and  we  know  what  has  happened  before.'* 

"  That  shall  not  happen  again  if  I  can  prevent  it,"  said 
Lady  Syde.  "  The  story  to  which  you  allude  was  what  finally 
iestroyed  all  the  affection  I  had  at  one  time  for  him.  I  will 
prevent  it,  Sarah.  I  have  a  hold  over  him,  although  unfor- 
tunately it  is  no  more  than  the  power  of  denying  him  money. 
Bu>  still,  that  is  what  he  cares  more  about  than  anything,  and 


430  EXTON  MANOR 

I  will  take  very  strong  measures  indeed  to  prevent  his  intcr- 
ferji  any  further.     I  promise  you  that." 

Lady  Wrotham  was  touched  to  gratitude.  "  I  thank  you 
very  much,  Henrietta,"  she  said.  "  I  hoped  you  would  be 
able  to  do  something,  and  I  am  glad  you  see  with  me  in  what 
must  be  done.     It  is  the  only  way." 

"  I  will  stop  every  penny  of  his  allowance  unless  he  gives 
me  his  word  not  to  see  her  or  communicate  with  her.  I  will 
not  have  it.  I  am  determined  to  stop  it.  I  have  the  power 
to  do  so  and  I  will  use  it." 

Whether  her  reiterated  assurances  were  derived  from  a  con- 
sciousness of  her  power  or  were  prompted  by  some  doubt  as 
to  its  efficacy,  they  brought  a  sense  of  reliance  and  comfort  to 
Lady  Wrotham.  And  in  the  end  they  justified  themselves, 
for  a  few  days  later  Lady  Wrotham  received  the  following  let- 
ter from  her  — 

"  My  dear  Sarah, 

"  I  have  done  what  I  said  I  would  do.  I  sent  for 
Laurence  to  come  and  see  me.  He  said  he  was  engaged 
every  day,  but  I  insisted  and  he  came.  There  was  a  scene  ! 
But  I  was  firm.  I  do  not  fear  his  violence  in  the  least,  and 
I  reproached  him  with  ingratitude.  That  had  very  little 
effect,  but  my  threats  he  could  not  afford  to  ignore.  He 
leaves  Exton  to-day — I  insisted  upon  that,  and  will  not  go 
there  again  or  see  her  or  write  to  her.  I  am  glad  I  have 
been  able  to  do  this  for  you,  and  hope  ever)'thing  will  now 
go  well, 

"  In  haste,  yours  affectionately, 

"  Henrietta  Syde. 

"  P.S. — I  have  undertaken  to  pay  Laurence's  debts y^r  the 
last  time,  and  to  increase  his  allowance  to  fifteen  hundred  a 
year.  It  will  leave  me  a  poor  woman,  but  do  not  tell  any- 
body." 

Henrietta  had  behaved  nobly.  Lady  Wrotham  felt  that, 
Slid  George  felt  it  too  when  she  imparted  her  news  to  him. 


LADY  SYDE  INTERVENES  431 

"  The  way  that  fellow  has  sponged  on  Aunt  Henrietta  is 
beyond  everything,"  he  said.  "And,  mind  you,  mother, 
Uncle  Franklin  was  just  as  bad,  though  he  had  the  grace  to 
do  it  without  making  himself  unpleasant.  Laurence  has 
made  a  hard  bargain  with  her ;  that's  quite  plain.  And  she's 
acted  like  a  trump.  Well,  I  do  believe  I've  got  a  chance  now, 
and  if  I  have  I  owe  it  all  to  her." 

And  with  this  expression  of  gratitude  Lady  Wrotham  had 
to  be  content. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

LORD   WROTHAM    PROPOSES 

If  Mrs.  Ferraby  had  been  asked  the  direct  question 
whether  she  would  prefer  that  a  friend  of  hers  should  marry 
George  Wrotham,  or  his  cousin  Laurence  Syde,  she  would 
certainly  have  given  her  decision  in  favour  of  Wrotham. 
She  knew  very  well  that  Laurence,  in  spite  of  his  birth  and 
his  assured  position  in  the  world  of  fashion,  was  an  ad- 
venturer, and  that  a  woman  who  should  give  her  life  and 
happiness  into  his  keeping  would  run  a  grave  risk  of  rueing 
her  bargain.  And  yet,  when  he  told  her,  as  he  did,  with 
cynical  frankness,  the  reason  why  he  was  obliged  to  cut  short 
his  visit  to  her,  she  was  greatly  annoyed  on  his  behalf. 

"  Surely,"  she  said,  "  George  can't  know  of  this.  He 
would  never  consent  to  take  advantage  of  you  in  that  under- 
hand way.     Why,  it  is  bribery." 

"  Quite  so,"  replied  Laurence ;  "  and  I  have  taken  the 
bribe.  I  can't  afford  not  to.  That  old  lady  is  in  a  position 
to  ruin  me  if  I  don't  do  what  she  tells  me,  and  she'd  do  it. 
I  dare  say  it  would  be  very  noble  of  me  to  tell  her  to  go  to 
the  deuce,  and  set  about  earning  my  living  by  the  sweat  of 
my  brow.  But  as  there  isn't  a  soul  in  the  world  who  would 
have  the  smallest  use  for  the  sweat  of  my  brow,  that  course 
isn't  open  to  me." 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  could  help  yourself,"  said  Mrs. 
Ferraby.  *'  But  I  do  think  it  is  mean  of  Lady  Syde  to  use 
her  power  over  you  in  that  way,  and  if  George  knows  of  it, 
I  can  only  say  that  my  opinion  of  him  is  not  what  it  was." 

"  Of  course  he  knows  of  it,"  said  Laurence.  "  He  put 
her  up  to  it.     You  don't  know  that  young  gentleman  as  well 

.  43« 


LORD  WROTHAM  PROPOSES  433 

a  I  do.  Well,  I  hope  he'll  pull  it  off.  If  I  can't  rxiariy 
hfc.  myself,  I'd  just  as  soon  he  married  her  as  anybody." 

"  Did  you  really  want  to  marry  her  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Ferraby, 
m  some  surprise. 

He  looked  at  her  with  cool  impudence.  "  What  else  do 
you  suppose  I  wanted  ?  "  he  asked  j  and  Mrs.  Ferraby  had 
nothing  to  reply. 

Laurence  took  his  departure,  and  Mrs.  Ferraby  took  the 
first  opportunity  of  repeating  the  information  he  had  given 
her  to  Norah  O'Keefe,  which,  as  he  was  debarred  by  the 
terms  of  his  agreement  with  Lady  Syde  from  communicating 
with  her  herself,  might  possibly  have  been  the  reason  of  his 
disclosure.  Norah  was  incensed  by  what  she  heard,  but  it 
gave  her  a  considerable  amount  of  food  for  thought,  and  she 
was  more  than  usually  quiet  during  the  following  day's 
expedition  on  the  water.  It  certainly  did  not  incline  her 
towards  Wrotham,  and  to  that  extent  Lady  Syde's  diplomacy 
seemed  to  have  been  a  complete  failure,  for  she  showed  quite 
plainly  that  his  attentions  were  distasteful  to  her.  He  went 
home  to  the  Abbey  a  prey  to  acute  depression  of  spirits. 
The  true  reason  of  her  change  of  attitude  did  not  occur  to 
him.  He  knew  that  Laurence  had  promised  not  to  communi- 
cate with  her  again  in  any  way,  and  it  never  crossed  his 
mind  that  he  might  have  taken  steps,  without  actually  break- 
ing his  word,  to  cause  the  reason  of  his  abrupt  withdrawal 
to  be  conveyed  to  her.  If  he  had  thought  of  this  he  might 
have  considered  whether,  after  all,  he  had  been  justified  in 
taking  advantage  of  the  removal  of  a  rival  after  this  fashion. 
As  it  was  he  thought  only  of  the  change,  on  her  part,  from 
frank  friendliness  to  a  rather  marked  disinclination  for  his 
society,  and  put  it  down  to  a  stronger  attraction  towards 
Laurence  than  he  had  suspected.  This  caused  him  grave 
disquiet,  and  his  eager,  impatient  nature  impelled  him  to  an 
issue.     The  next  day  was  Sunday.     He  would  go  to  her  and 


434  EXTON  MANOR 

declare  himself.  He  could  hold  back  no  longer.  He  must 
put  his  fortunes  to  the  test  without  further  delay. 

He  went  to  church  on  Sunday  morning.  Norah  was  not 
there,  and  he  braved  the  talk  of  the  village  and  went  straight 
to  her  house.  She  was  reading  in  her  drawing-room,  and 
blushed,  as  he  thought  with  annoyance,  when  he  was  shown 
in  to  her. 

"  How  do  you  do  ? "  she  said.  "  I  had  a  headache  and 
didn't  go  to  church."  She  stood  up  and  looked  at  him  with 
a  shade  of  defiance  in  her  blue  eyes. 

"  Poor  lady  !  "  he  said  cheerfully.  "  I  hope  it  isn't  very 
bad.  The  sun  was  very  hot  yesterday.  Look  here,  wouldn't 
you  like  this  blind  down  a  little  ?  It  will  be  striking  in  on 
you  directly." 

He  lowered  the  blind  without  waiting  for  her  reply,  and 
she  resumed  her  seat  with  the  momentary  tension  past.  He 
sat  down  opposite  to  her.  "  I  say,"  he  said,  ''  why  were 
you  so  huffy  with  me  yesterday  ?  You'd  hardly  speak  to  me. 
I've  not  done  anything  to  offend  you,  have  I  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  with  friendly  eyes,  taking  his  stand  on  his 
open,  cheerful  nature,  which  it  was  difficult  to  repulse.  If  he 
had  shown  the  flouted  lover's  melancholy  diffidence  he  would 
have  given  her  very  little  trouble. 

She  bent  her  eyes.     "  I  don't  know  that  I  was,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  but  I  assure  you  you  made  me  feel  quite  dismal,"  he 
said  with  the  same  light  air.  "  I'd  have  jumped  overboard  for 
twopence.  We've  always  been  good  friends,  haven't  we  ? 
Come  now,  tell  me  what  has  happened." 

Her  instinct  was  to  keep  away  from  the  unpleasant  topic 
and  return  to  the  easy  state  of  good  comradeship  which  had 
always  been  the  note  of  their  intercourse.  But  there  was 
something  beneath  his  airy  manner  which  told  her  that  he 
would  not  allow  her  to  keep  away  from  it.  She  thought  for  a 
moment. 


LORD  WROTHAM  PROPOSES  435 

**  I  have  heard  something  that  has  annoyed  me  very  much/* 
she  said  -,  "  but  I  certainly  don't  want  to  discuss  it  with  you." 

His  face  grew  a  shade  graver.  "Is  it  about  Laurence 
Syde  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Why  do  you  press  me  ? "  she  said.  "  Surely  you  don't 
expect  me  to  talk  to  you  about  it  ?  " 

*'  Why  not  ?     It  concerns  me  more  than  anybody." 

"  Very  well,  then,  if  you  insist  upon  it,  I  will  tell  you  what 
I  think.  I  think  it  is  disgraceful  that  you  should  make  a  bar- 
gain about  me  behind  my  back  as  you  have  done.  What 
right  have  I  given  you  to  treat  me  in  that  way  ? " 

She  was  going  on,  beginning  to  be  agitated,  but  he  held  up 
his  hand.  "  Wait  a  minute,"  he  said  ;  *'  I  didn't  know  that 
you  knew  what  had  happened.  I  suppose  he  told  you  before 
he  went  away." 

"  No,  he  told  me  nothing.  He  wouldn't  have  dared  to  do 
so.  The  meanness  of  his  action  !  But  I  won't  have  you 
think  that  I  mind  for  my  own  sake.  He  is  nothing  to  me 
and  never  has  been.  I  ought  not  to  have  to  say  this,  but 
when  you  force  me  to  say  anything  about  it  at  all,  I " 

"  I  know  exactly  what  you  feel,"  he  interrupted  again,"  and 
you  needn't  be  afraid  of  my  misunderstanding  you.  It  all 
came  as  a  surprise  to  you,  but  you  can't  help  knowing  now 
that  he  didn't  want  to  go;  that's  about  it,  isn't  it?  There's 
nothing  you  can  blame  yourself  for  there." 

She  was  insensibly  relieved,  but  her  indignation  held.  "  If 
he  didn't  want  to  go,"  she  said,  "  he  went  because  he  was 
bribed  to  go.     That  is  what  Mrs.  Ferraby  says,  and  it  is  true." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Ferraby  told  you,  did  she  ?  and  he  told  her.  I 
might  have  known  that  he  would  have  taken  some  step  of 
that  sort.  Well  now,  look  here,  dear  lady,  let's  clear  this  up. 
I'll  tell  you  what  you  are  thinking,  though  it's  difficult  for  you 
to  put  it  into  words  yourself.  You  think  that  he  and  I  were 
both  in  love  with  you,  and  that's  true  enough  as  far  as  rm 


436  EXTON  MANOR 

concerned.  I've  come  here  to  say  so.  And  you  think  that  I 
wanted  him  out  of  the  way ;  and  that's  true.  But  if  you  think 
I  pulled  the  strings  to  get  him  removed  in  that  particular  way 
— well,  you're  mistaken.     I  didn't." 

"  Oh  !  "  she  said  doubtfully.  The  even  matter-of-fact  tone 
in  which  he  had  spoken  saved  her  from  the  confusion  certain 
of  his  words  might  have  brought. 

"  No,"  he  went  on  in  the  same  tone,  "  my  mother  arranged 
that.  I  told  her  how  things  stood,  and — well,  she  hasn't  got 
much  of  an  opinion  of  Major  Syde,  and  she  talked  over  the 
question  with  my  aunt — I  didn't  know  of  it,  you  know,  till 
afterwards — and  they  put  their  heads  together,  and  you  know 
what  happened.  I'm  not  sorry  for  it,  you  know.  I'm  glad. 
But  at  the  same  time  I  shouldn't  quite  have  liked  to  say,  '  Go 
in  and  do  your  best,'  if  they'd  told  me  exactly  what  it  was 
they  were  going  to  do." 

Norah  considered  this  frank  statement  perplexedly.  She 
felt  that  there  was  a  good  deal  more  to  be  said,  but  she  did  not 
quite  see  how  she  was  to  say  it.  Wrotham  again  came  to  her 
rescue.  "  I'll  be  as  honest  with  you  as  I  possibly  can,"  he 
said ;  *'  even  at  the  risk  of  upsetting  you.  I  shouldn't  like  to 
come  to  you  in  any  other  way.  Laurence  is  a  very  fascinat- 
ing fellow ;  I  know  that  well  enough,  and  I  thought  he  was 
making  an  impression  on  you.  I  knew  that  couldn't  lead  to 
any  good,  and  my  mother  knew  it  too,  and  Lady  Syde  knew 
it,  and  I  give  you  my  word  that  if  there  had  been  no  question 
of  what  I  wanted  in  the  matter,  they  would  have  acted  just  the 
same.  My  mother  thinks  a  great  deal  of  you  ;  I've  never 
known  her  to  take  to  any  one  in  the  same  way  before." 

"  Me  !  "  she  exclaimed  in  surprise.  "  Why,  I  have  hardly 
ever  spoken  to  her." 

"  Quite  enough.  What  I  say  is  true.  She  would  give 
anything  to  be  on  friendly  terms  with  you,  and  she  deplores 
this  row  with  the  RedclifFes  more  for  that  than  anything.     It's 


LORD  WROTHAM  PROPOSES  437 

a  difficult  thing  to  say^  but  Laurence  isn't  a  good  chap,  and 
you're  well  rid  of  him." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  shade  of  contempt.  "  Why, 
every  one  says  that  you  and  he  were  the  greatest  friends,"  she 
said. 

"  Perhaps  we  were  in  a  way,"  he  said ;  "  and  it's  quite  true 
that  I  shouldn't  have  taken  sides  against  him  a  month  or  two 
ago.  But  my  eyes  have  been  opened.  I'm  a  different  fellow 
to  what  I  was ;  you've  made  me  different.  I've  got  an  object 
now,  and  that's  what  I've  never  had  before.  Do  you  know 
what  that  object  is  ?  " 

"  No — yes — Lord  Wrotham,  you  are  not  fair  to  me.  I 
won't  answer  your  questions." 

*'  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  It's  to  marry  you,  and  when  I've 
married  you  to  spend  all  my  time  in  making  you  happy ;  and, 
by  Jove,  I'll  do  it  too.  I'll  think  of  nothing  else.  Let  me 
try,  won't  you  ?     You  won't  be  sorry  for  it." 

She  was  deeply  distressed  j  she  felt  him  to  be  plying  her 
relentlessly,  but  she  could  not  be  unaware  of  the  honest 
fervour  and  sincerity  that  underlay  the  evenness  of  his  speech. 
^'  Oh,  how  can  you  ?  "  she  cried.  "  You  are  cruel — no,  I 
don't  mean  that — I  ought  to  thank  you,  I  suppose,  but,  you 
know  you  have  no  right  to  ask  me.  I  have  given  you  no 
right.  I  have  not  thought  of  it  at  all.  I  have  been  friendly 
with  you,  and  with  Major  Syde  too — nothing  more — and  I  find 
myself  in  this  coil — intrigued  gainst — and " 

"  Oh  come  now,  let's  get  that  out  of  the  way,"  he  said, 
still  holding  the  advantage  of  self-control  over  her.  "  You 
don't  care  for  Laurence  really,  do  you  ?  " 

Her  distress  changed  to  indignation.  "  You  know  I  don't," 
she  said ;  "  and  after  the  way  he  has  behaved  you  ought  not  to 
ask  that.     It  is  an  insult." 

"Of  course  I  don't  mean  it  as  an  insult;  but  you  must 
have  seen  that  both  he  and  I  were — well,  how  shall  I  put  it  ? 


43^  EXTON  MANOR 

— trying  to  get  into  your  good  graces.  You  have  discovered 
that  after  all  he  wasn't  very  keen  about  it.  Very  well,  then, 
there's  me  left,  and  I'm  as  keen  as  ever  I  can  be,  and  I've 
never  been  anything  else." 

It  was  perhaps  hardly  to  be  expected  that  he  could  continue 
walking  on  this  very  delicate  ground  without  a  slip.  He  had 
escaped  the  dangerous  places  in  a  wonderful  way,  but  per- 
haps more  by  good  fortune  than  from  the  tactful  knowledge 
of  what  to  avoid.  Now  he  had  slipped  badly.  He  had  told 
her  that  she  had  known  all  along  that  he  and  Laurence  were 
both  making  love  to  her,  but  that  Laurence's  love-making  was 
insincere,  and  she  had  only  just  found  it  out.  What  if  it 
was  all  true  ?  No  woman  would  own  to  such  a  thing.  And 
the  clumsy,  downright,  male  mind  had  missed  the  point  that 
it  might  be  all  true  and  yet  present  itself  in  such  a  light  to  a 
woman  as  to  be  as  good  as  untrue.  His  mother,  perhaps, 
might  have  told  him  that  it  was  quite  possible  that  Norah  had 
received  the  somewhat  pressing  attentions  of  himself  and  an- 
other man  for  some  weeks  without  having  once  asked  herself 
whither  they  tended,  and  that  a  spoken  word  which  would 
seem  to  a  man  simply  the  inevitable  timely  seal  of  all  that  had 
gone  before,  might  still  to  a  woman  come  as  a  confusing 
sudden  thunderclap,  although  it  brought  with  it  the  flash  of 
light  which  made  clear  all  the  past ;  he  did  not  know  it  of 
himself,  and  he  was  staggered  at  the  reception  his  words  met 
with.     She  sprang  up,  her  eyes  blazing. 

'*  How  can  you  say  such  wicked  things  ?  **  she  cried. 
"What  can  you  think  of  me?  To  say  that  I  knew  this  and 
took  part  in  it !  It  is  absolutely  untrue.  How  dare  you  come 
and  say  such  a  thing  to  me  ?  " 

He  was  quick  to  see  his  mistake,  and,  fortunately  for  him, 
did  not  lose  his  head.     "  I  put  it  clumsily,"  he  said. 

"  You'd  no  right  to  say  it  at  all,"  she  cried.  "  And  it  isn't 
true.     1  was  friendly   with  you  and  Major  Syde — and  with 


LORD  WROTHAM  PROPOSES  439 

others — but  that  w*  all,  and  it  is  odious  and — and  cowardly 
to  tell  me  that  I  meant  anything  more  than  to  be  friendly 
in  your  case,  and  to  lead  you  both  on — that  is  what  it 
comes  to." 

"No,  it  doesn't,"  he  said  quietly.  "Sit  down;  I  didn't 
mean  to  ofFend  you,  and  you  must  listen  to  what  I  say." 

She  sat  down,  rather  meekly,  dominated  by  his  coolness  of 
manner. 

"  Nobody  knows  better  than  I  do,"  he  said,  "  that  you 
never  took  me  very  seriously.  But  we  can  put  all  that  aside 
now.  I've  been  serious  all  along  in  my  own  mind,  and  now 
I've  come  to  tell  you  so,  and  to  ask  you  to  give  me  a  chance. 
I  love  every  hair  of  your  head,  and  everything  you  say  or 
do.  I'll  love  you  as  long  as  I  live,  whether  you  say  yes  or 
no,  and  I'll  wait  for  you  as  long  as  you  like  if  you  think 
I've  spoken  too  soon.  But  I  couldn't  put  it  off  any  longer. 
You  don't  know  what  I  feel  for  you.  It  has  made  quite 
a  different  man  of  me.  You  won't  send  me  away  now,  will 
you  ?  " 

The  calm  putting  aside  of  the  cause  of  offence  would 
hardly  have  sufficed  for  her  if  it  had  not  been  washed  out  by 
the  tide  of  his  passion.  It  was  impossible  to  ignore  the  pas- 
sion in  his  speech,  although  his  voice  was  not  raised  above  its 
previously  level  tone.  It  shook  her,  although  it  awoke  no 
answering  thrill  of  its  own  quality. 

"  I  ought  to  be  grateful  to  you  for  telling  me  this,"  she  said. 
"  I  am  grateful.  But  you  must  know  that  it  is  of  no  use.  I 
don't  want  to  marry  again,  and  I  have  no  feeling  for  you  but 
one  of  friendliness." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  know  that  I  thought  it  possible 
that  you  could  have.  At  any  rate,  you  won't  withdraw  that 
friendliness  from  me,  will  you  ?  I  shall  see  you  when  I'm 
down  here ;  you  won't  want  to  keep  me  away  from  you  ? " 

Oh,  admirable  young  man  !     What  instinct  guides  you  to- 


440  EXTON  MANOR 

wards  that  difficult  path  which  alone  can  lead  you  to  your 
goal  ?  It  would  be  useless  to  plead ;  you  would  only  arouse 
opposition.  Put  yourself  in  the  position  of  a  languishing  re- 
jected lover,  and  you  would  weary  her  to  active  dislike  of  you. 
Withdraw  to  the  safe  ground  of  friendship,  and  you  keep  alive 
that  one  little  spark  which  your  declaration  has  aroused.  An 
ill-considered  word  will  shake  it  into  darkness.  But  it  can  be 
made  to  grow,  if  you  give  everything  and  ask  for  nothing  in 
return.  You  must  tread  a  thorny  path.  Your  friendliness 
must  be  cheerful,  whatever  your  feelings  may  be.  It  will 
receive  a  prompt  return  in  cheerful  friendliness,  but  if  you  are 
deceived  by  that  to  a  renewal  of  love-making,  out  goes  the 
spark  at  once.  Keep  yourself  well  in  hand,  and  she  will 
begin  to  wonder  whether  the  friendliness  conceals  anything 
after  all.  Then  she  will  try  to  find  out,  and  this  will  be  hard 
to  resist.  Tell  her  nothing,  but  continue  with  your  devoted, 
always  cheerful  friendliness.  Then  the  spark  may  begin  to 
grow.  Curiosity  may  nourish  it ;  pique  may  fan  it ;  and  one 
day  the  friendliness  which  you  have  invoked  in  return  for 
yours  may  smoulder  into  flame.  In  the  meantime  you  have 
shown  her  what  you  are.  She  will  no  longer  be  afraid  of  your 
passion,  for  she  has  learned  to  like  you,  and  has  come  to  like 
you  so  much  that  it  will  not  disturb  her  to  be  told  that  your 
liking  for  her  has  been  ardent  love  all  the  time.  Then  you 
may  pick  the  thorns  out  of  your  feet,  and  crown  your  brow 
with  laurel. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Norah.  "  I  hope  we  shall  always  be 
friends  when  we  meet ;  but  you  must  never  talk  to  me  of  this 
again." 

"  I  shan't  worry  you,"  he  said  ;  "  I  can  take  *  no  '  for  an 
answer.  But  there's  one  thing  I  should  like  to  ask  you. 
Can't  you  make  it  up  with  my  mother  ?  She's  lonely  here. 
I  don't  say  it  isn't  her  fault  that  she's  managed  to  set  every- 
body against  her ;  that's  her  way ;  but  she  doesn't  mean  it« 


LORD  WROTHAM  PROPOSES  441 

She'd  be  awfully  glad  to  see  you  sometimes.  It  would  be  a 
real  kindness  to  her." 

Norah  hesitated. 

"  You  needn't  be  afraid  that  you'll  hear  anything  you  don't 
want  to  hear,  about  me  or — or  Laurence,"  he  said.  "  I'll  tell 
her  that's  all  over,  and  she  won't  mention  it." 

"  I  wasn't  thinking  of  that,"  she  said  with  a  blush.     "  I 

should  like  to  see  her  sometimes,  but Well,  I'll  see. 

If  I  can,  without  being  disloyal  to  my  old  friends,  I  will." 

"  Thank  you.  I  say,  is  it  true  that  Miss  RedclifFe  is  en- 
gaged to  her  cousin  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  should  have  heard  of  it  if  it  were.  But — I  don't 
know  that  I  ought  to  say  this,  but  you  won't  repeat  it,  will 
you  ? — I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  did  come  about.  He  is  com- 
ing down  here  next  month  j  and  she  seems  so  much  happier 
than  she  used  to  be.  I  am  so  glad.  Both  she  and  Mrs.  Red- 
clifFe were  made  dreadfully  unhappy  by  what  happened  to 
them — and  now  I  think  they  have  thrown  it  off.  Naturally 
they  don't  mind  so  much  what  people  say  here,  now  that  he — 
Sir  Francis,  I  mean — has  shown  them  that  he  cares  nothing 
about  it.     In  a  way  it  has  brought  them  together." 

"  Yes,  he's  a  good  chap,  old  Frankie  RedclifFe ;  and  she's  a 
nice  girl.  If  it  comes  ofF  I'll  give  them  a  jolly  handsome 
wedding  present." 

She  looked  at  him  with  the  hint  of  a  mischievous  smile. 
"  I  thought  you  thought  she  was  a  nice  girl,"  she  said. 

He  trod  unflinchingly  on  the  first  thorn.  "  Ah,  well !  "  he 
said  with  resigned  cheerfulness ;  "  Frank  RedclifFe  thought  so 
too." 

Then  he  took  his  leave  on  a  note  of  amiable  bustle,  shocked 
to  discover  that  it  was  already  luncheon-time,  and  left  not 
a  trace  of  awkwardness  behind  him,  which,  considering  what 
had  passed  between  them,  was  no  small  achievement. 

Nor^h  sat  for  some  minutes  looking  out  of  the  window. 


442  EXTON  MANOR 

She  was  relieved  that  the  crisis  had  come  and  gone,  but  she 
was  a  little  puzzled  by  it  all,  too.  He  had  seemed  very  much 
m  earnest  until  she  had  definitely  told  him  that  she  did  not 
want  his  earnestness.  Then  he  had  withdrawn  instantly. 
It  did  not  look  as  if  he  was  so  much  in  earnest  after  all. 
Well,  it  was  best  so.  She  certainly  did  not  want  to  marry 
him,  or  anybody.  But  he  was  very  nice;  that  could  not  be 
denied;  and  very  good  company.  She  was  glad  that  he  had 
taken  her  refusal  so  sensibly.  There  would  be  no  awkward- 
ness in  meeting  him  again,  and  it  would  be  possible — and 
pleasant — to  meet  him  on  friendly  terms. 

Then  she  went  in  to  luncheon,  and  wondered  what  he 
would  say  and  do  when  she  met  him  again,  and  when  the 
next  meeting  would  take  place. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE   SHADOW   OF   CHANGE 

It  was  a  Sunday  in  late  September.  Summer,  as  if  loth 
to  depart,  had  left  her  sunny  skirt  trailing  over  the  country, 
and  Autumn  had  not  yet  summoned  up  courage  to  soil  it  with 
rain  and  wind.  The  cottage  gardens  were  still  gay  with 
flowers,  and  the  trees  were  in  full  leaf,  with  the  added  beauty 
of  a  thousand  varied  tints  of  green  and  gold  and  russet.  The 
grass  was  wringing  wet  at  dawn,  but  by  midday  the  sun  had 
licked  up  the  moisture,  and  only  the  grateful  freshness  of  the 
warm  air  was  unlike  the  noons  of  high  Summer. 

The  Vicar  walked  down  from  his  house  to  the  church, 
sad  at  heart,  in  spite  of  the  mild  beauty  of  the  September 
morning,  which  seemed  to  envelop  the  familiar  scenes  through 
which  he  passed,  the  red-roofed  houses,  the  cottage  gardens, 
the  river,  the  old  Abbey  buildings  and  the  grassy  stretch  of 
park  land  near  the  church,  in  a  golden  haze.  The  beauty  of 
the  season  added  to  the  perennial  charm  of  a  place  which  he 
had  grown  to  love  more  and  more  as  the  years  had  passed 
quietly  over  his  head,  but  it  only  increased  his  sadness,  for  he 
was  going  to  leave  it  all,  the  scenes  amongst  which  he  had 
worked  for  over  twenty  years,  the  fair  home  in  which  he  had 
hoped  to  end  his  days,  the  people  whom  he  had  grown  to 
love.  He  was  going  away  to  begin  his  work  over  again  in 
new  and  strange  surroundings,  and  he  would  end  this  long 
spell  of  his  life,  unable  to  feel  that  his  work  had  been  crowned 
with  success,  conscious  only,  at  the  last,  of  ruin  and  failure. 
Lady  Wrotham  had  had  her  way.  Most  of  his  parishioners 
had  turned  against  him.  There  was  open  strife  where  there 
had  been  peace  and  contented  progress,  and  there  was  no 

443 


444  EXTON  MANOR 

chance  that  by  staying  on  and  continuing  the  struggle  the 
strife  would  grow  less.  So  he  had  taken  the  plunge,  and 
resigned  his  living,  and  now  he  was  about  to  conduct  his  last 
Sunday  services  in  Exton  Abbey  church,  and  preach  his  fare- 
well sermons. 

The  church  was  full.  Evei  since  it  had  become  knowin, 
about  a  fortnight  before,  that  Mr.  Prentice  was  leaving,  public 
opinion  had  been  veering  round  in  his  favour,  and  now  set  in 
a  strong  tide  of  respect  for  him  and  regret  for  his  departure. 
Those  who  had  taken  a  prominent  part  in  helping  to  drive 
him  out  of  the  place  were  severely  blamed  by  those  who  had 
only  omitted  to  stand  up  for  him  when  their  support  might 
have  been  of  value,  and  these  in  their  turn  were  apologetic  to 
the  small  remnant  that  had  never  wavered  in  their  allegiance. 
There  had  been  some  talk  of  a  testimonial,  but  there  had 
been  nobody  to  take  the  lead.  Browne  had  been  approached 
on  the  subject  and  Browne  had  delivered  himself  as  follows. 
*'  What !  Do  all  you  can  to  make  his  life  here  a  burden  to  him 
until  he's  obliged  to  go,  and  then  give  him  a  twopenny-half- 
penny address  badly  illuminated,  and  a  plated  coffee  service 
which  he  doesn't  want!  I'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  it." 
And  the  project  had  dropped.  But  there  had  been  some 
consolation  in  the  change  of  attitude  that  had  come  over  the 
people  during  the  past  fortnight,  and  the  Vicar  felt,  when  he 
took  his  place  at  the  reading  desk,  that  the  large  congregation 
had  not  been  drawn  to  the  church  merely  out  of  curiosity, 
but  contained  many  sympathetic  and  some  regretful  hearts. 

Lord  Wrotham  sat  alone  in  the  Abbey  pew.  Lady  Wro- 
tham,  now  that  she  had  gained  the  end  for  which  she  had 
worked  so  persistently,  would  have  liked  to  bury  the  hatchet 
and  revert  at  least  to  her  first  state  of  neutrality.  But  that 
was  not  possible,  with  Mrs.  Prentice  more  than  ever  con- 
sumed with  bitterness  against  her;  nor  had  the  Vicar  been 
able  to  bring  himself  to  ignore  his  defeat  at  her  hands  an«/ 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CHANGE  445 

respond  to  her  tentative  advances.  She  had  not  considered  it 
advisable  to  attend  Exton  Abbey  church  on  this  last  Sunday 
of  his  ministrations,  as  she  would  have  been  quite  ready  to 
do.  but  she  had  compromised  by  staying  at  home  instead  of 
drivinff  to  btanaott.  as  she  had  done  every  Sunday  for  some 
wiomns  oast,  ana  cue  Abbey  servants  were  there  in  full  force. 
Virs.  Prentice,  also,  had  elected  to  stay  at  home.  She  had 
reacnea  ine  siaae  of  BeiH|^  without  a  single  friend  on  the 
Manor.  aa«  ra  rxis  ias  eaSkcted  hostility  and  dislike  of  the 
wnoie  oanan  011  suca  an  occ^ion  as  this  had  been  beyond 
ner.  out  eveiv  one  eisc  W  our  Exton  acquaintances  was 
there.  Mrs.  Redc!iSb  and  Hilda,  with  Francis  RedclifFe, 
Norah  O'Keefe,  the  Dales,  Browne  and  Turner,  and  even 
the  Ferrabys,  with  one  or  two  of  the  party  then  filling  their 
house. 

If  Mr.  Prentice  had  lost  a  good  deal  of  what  had  hitherto 
made  life  pleasant  to  him,  he  had  at  any  rate  gained  to  this  ex- 
tent from  the  trouble  and  anxiety  he  had  gone  through,  that  his 
beliefs  had  become  articulate.  His  sermon  was  a  short  one, 
and  he  made  no  reference  in  it  to  his  approaching  departure, 
but  it  affected  his  hearers  as  very  few  sermons  of  his  had  done 
during  the  years  he  had  preached  to  them.  The  trite,  glib 
sentences  that  had  fallen  so  easily  from  his  lips  had  vanished, 
and  in  their  place  was  utterance,  not  remarkably  well-fash- 
ioned, nor  expressive  of  ideas  at  all  out  of  the  common,  but 
sincere  and  heartfelt.  He  preached  on  charity,  and  where  be- 
fore he  would  have  found  nothing  to  say  on  the  greatest  of 
Christian  themes  that  was  not  rubbed  thin  and  smooth  by  con- 
stant and  easy  repetition,  it  was  impossible  now  not  to  feel 
that  everything  he  did  say  was  minted  from  his  own  experi- 
ence and  deep  conviction.  He  told  his  hearers  that  while  it 
was  possible  to  find  causes  of  disagreement  amongst  Christians 
in  every  doctrine  and  religious  practice  they  might  uphold,  ♦ihis 
g\h  alone   brought  them   all  together.     It  was  the  only  sure 


446  EXTON  MANOR 

hall-mark.  There  was  no  one,  not  even  amongst  non-Chris- 
tians, who  did  not  recognize  it  and  do  it  honour.  Where  it 
was  present,  there  was  a  good  man  or  a  good  woman,  and  the 
grace  of  God  could  be  plainly  seen  here  by  those  who  were 
blind  to  every  other  manifestation.  Where  it  was  absent 
nothing  else  was  of  any  avail.  The  soul  was  still  groping  in 
darkness,  although  to  outward  appearance  religion  was  its 
guiding  light.  And  so,  with  solemn  warning  and  exhorta- 
tion, he  gave  his  message,  and  there  was  no  one  in  his  con- 
gregation who  would  not  have  said  that  he  himself,  during 
the  years  he  had  lived  amongst  them,  had  practised  what  he 
preached,  and,  in  spite  of  mistakes  and  human  weakness  and 
perhaps  some  follies,  had  set  them  an  example  that  they  well 
might  follow. 

Norah  O'Keefe  and  Browne  and  Turner  lunched  at  the 
White  House  on  that  Sunday,  and  their  talk  was  naturally  of 
the  coming  change  in  the  life  of  the  Manor.  Change  was  in 
the  air.  It  was  indicated  by  the  presence  there  of  Francis 
RedclifFe,  and  the  looks  which  he  could  not  prevent  himself 
from  casting  at  his  cousin  whenever  he  was  in  her  presence ; 
by  Hilda's  spasmodically  high  spirits,  frequent  laughter  and 
the  warmth  which  she  threw  into  her  manner  towards  her 
mother,  and  to  Norah,  for  by  this  time  the  cloud  that  had 
arisen  to  obscure  their  friendship  had  disappeared  ;  by  the 
treatment  which  Norah  herself  underwent  at  the  hands  of  her 
two  old  admirers,  in  whose  manner  towards  her  there  was  a 
shade  more  deference  than  before,  and  a  chivalry  no  less 
marked  but  rather  less  eager.  But  coming  changes,  though 
they  cast  their  shadow,  were  not  yet  ripe  for  discussion. 
Only  in  discussing  the  Vicar's  departure  there  was  always  this 
feeling  underlying  the  talk,  that  it  was  the  first  change  of  others 
to  follow. 

"  I  hope  the  old  lady's  satisfied  now,"  said  Turner.  "  She 
has  got  her  own  way,  and  that's  what  very  few  of  us  get.     I 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CHANGE  447 

suppose  we  shall  have  some  snuffing,  psalm-singing  fellow  here 
instead  of  Prentice,  who'll  show  us  the  whites  of  his  eyes  and 
be  in  and  out  of  the  Abbey  all  day  long,  eh,  Browne?  I  sup- 
pose you  know  all  about  it." 

"  Dacre  is  coming  here,"  said  Browne.  "  Wrotham  told  me 
so  this  morning.  Her  ladyship  asked  that  he  should  be  ap- 
pointed." 

There  was  a  chorus  of  exclamation  and  inquiry,  and  Browne 
explained  that  Mr.  Dacre  was  vicar  of  the  church  in  London 
that  Lady  Wrotham  affected,  and  had  already  once  made  an 
appearance  at  Exton. 

"  Well,  he'll  be  a  nice  companion  for  you,  Browne,"  said 
Turner.     "  You  want  looking  after." 

"  I  shan't  be  here,"  said  Browne  phlegmatically.  "  I'm 
going  to  move  to  Hurstbury  and  look  after  things  from  there. 
We  fixed  that  up  this  morning  too.  But  don't  say  anything 
outside  yet." 

The  chorus  was  renewed.  *'  I  couldn't  stand  it  any 
longer,"  said  Browne.  "  I've  had  enough  worry  since  Lady 
Wrotham  came  here  to  turn  my  hair  grey,  and  if  I  hadn't 
been  able  to  make  some  arrangement  of  this  sort  I  should 
have  gone  altogether.  I  made  up  my  mind  a  month  and  more 
ago." 

Turner  looked  at  h!m.  '^Suppose  all  the  rest  of  us  don't 
count  for  anything,"  he  said. 

"  You  needn't  pretend  any  longer  that  you  didn't  know  it," 
replied  Browne.  "And  I've  fixed  up  that  little  business  of 
yours  too.     You  can  have  the  land  at  the  rent  you  proposed." 

Eyes  were  bent  upon  Turner,  who  showed  unwonted  con- 
fusion of  manner.  "  Surely  you  are  not  going  too.  Captain 
Turner  ?  "  said  Mrs.  RedclifFe. 

"  He's  going  to  chuck  his  fishes  and  grow  fruit,"  said 
Browne.     "We've  let  him  a  farm  at  Hurstbury." 

Then  you'll  both  be  together,"  said  Hilda,  and  Norah, 


II 


448  EXTON  MANOR 

with  a  laugh,  "  Did  anybody  think  that  Mr.  Browne  and  Cap- 
tain Turner  could  bear  to  be  parted  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  give  him  leave  to  say  anything  about  it,"  said 
Turner.  "  But  he  can't  keep  anything  to  himself.  His 
tongue  will  be  the  ruin  of  him  yet.  But  I  made  an  offer  for  this 
other  place  before  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  leave.  That's 
what  first  gave  him  the  idea.  There  never  was  a  fellow  with 
less  originality." 

*'  It  seems  to  me  that  Lady  Wrotham  will  be  left  alone  in 
her  glory  here,"  said  Francis  RedclifFe. 

Nobody  contradicted  this,  although  no  word  had  been  said 
of  the  RedclifFes  or  Norah  leaving. 

"That  will  suit  her  very  well,"  said  Turner,  "as  she  can't  get 
on  with  anybody  in  the  place.  Been  much  simpler  if  she'd 
gone  away  herself;  then  Prentice  might  have  stayed  on.  It's 
hardest  on  him.  You  could  see  the  poor  fellow  felt  it  this 
morning." 

"  It  is  very  sad,"  said  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  "  And  I  feel  so  sorry 
that  we  cannot  be  with  him  at  all  now  to  let  him  see  that  his 
going  is  a  great  loss  to  us." 

"  Alone  with  that  woman  !  "  said  Turner.  "  And  taking 
her  with  him  wherever  he  goes !  Yes.  That's  his  real 
tragedy." 

"  I  would  go  to  her,"  said  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  "  if  I  thought 
she  would  receive  me.  I  think  I  must  before  they  leave.  It 
is  terrible  to  think  of  them  going  with  no  one  to  bid  them  a 
friendly  good-bye,  after  the  years  we  have  known  them."  It 
was  plain  that  she  felt  acute  distress  at  the  thought.  All  that 
she  had  suffered  at  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Prentice  was  forgotten. 
She  could  only  see  a  poor  mistaken  woman  leaving  the  home 
in  which  she  had  lived  so  long,  at  enmity  with  all  her  little 
world. 

But  Hilda  said  quietly,  "You  can't  go  to  her,  mother.  And 
she  wouldn't  see  you,  if  you  did.     But  I  am  sorry  for  her  too." 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CHANGE  449 

There  was  a  change  here.  It  was  not  long  since  Hilda 
would  have  flamed  out  into  bitter  words  against  Mrs.  Prentice, 
and  held  that  she  had  got  nothing  worse  than  her  deserts. 

"I  see  her  sometimes,"  said  Browne.  "I've  never  actually 
quarrelled  with  her." 

"  Hadn't  got  enough  pluck  to,"  interpolated  Turner. 

"  I  don't  think  she's  particularly  sorry  for  herself.  She'd 
still  like  to  put  a  knife  into  the  lot  of  us.  I  wouldn't  advise 
anybody  to  go  near  her,  unless  they  want  their  heads  bitten 
off." 

The  picture  of  the  beaten  woman  still  nursing  her  insane 
rancour,  although  all  the  foundations  of  her  life  had  fallen 
around  her,  was  almost  terrible  to  contemplate.  "  Isn't  there 
a  son  ?  "  asked  Francis.     "  What's  become  of  him  ?  " 

"  He's  a  cub,"  said  Turner.  "  But  he's  fallen  on  his  feet. 
He  put  all  he  hadn't  spent  of  a  bit  of  money  that  was  left  to 
him  in  some  syndicate  and  he's  making  thousands  a  year.  At 
least  he's  spending  it." 

No  one  cared  to  pursue  the  subject  of  Fred  Prentice's  do- 
ings any  further,  and  presently  the  ladies  left  the  table. 

Hilda  and  Norah  O'Keefe  walked  arm  in  arm  in  the  garden. 
"  Norah,  I've  got  something  to  tell  you,"  said  Hilda  shyly. 

Norah  looked  at  her  quickly.  "  Oh,  Hilda,"  she  ex- 
claimed, "  I  am  so  glad.     Of  course  I  know  what  it  is." 

Hilda  smiled.  "I  suppose  you  do,"  she  said.  "I'm  not 
very  good  at  hiding  things,  and  dear  old  Frank  isn't  either." 

"  He's  a  very  lucky  man,"  said  Norah. 

"  It's  I  who  am  lucky.  I  always  liked  him  from  the  very 
first.  He's  so  honest  and  straightforward.  I  don't  think  he 
could  hide  anything  if  he  wanted  to.  And  I  simply  loved 
him  when  he  came  down  here  on  purpose  to  make  friends 
with  us  when  we  were  going  through  all  that  trouble  in  the 
Spring.  I  can  hardly  believe  that  that  is  all  over  now.  I 
don't  think  about  it  any  more.     He  has  blown  it  all  away." 


450  EXTON  MANOR 

Norah  responded  generously.  She  may  have  remembered 
that  she  had  done  something  too  to  soften  that  trouble  to  her 
friends.  But  it  was  not  a  time  to  insist  upon  sharing  the 
credit.  They  talked  together  happily  of  all  that  Hilda's  news 
meant  to  her.  "  Riverslea  is  such  a  lovely  place,"  she  said. 
"  And  the  garden,  Norah  !  You  never  saw  such  a  garden.  I 
am  to  do  exactly  as  I  like  in  it." 

"  It  will  be  rather  sad  leaving  this  garden  that  you  and  Mrs. 
Redcliffe  have  made,"  said  Norah. 

*'  I  shan't  mind,"  Hilda  said.  "  All  the  pleasure  has  gone 
out  of  this  place,  somehow.     J  hope  I  shall  never  see  it  again, 

unless Norah,  you  won't  be  living  here  much  longer, 

shall  you  ? " 

It  was  like  Hilda  to  fling  out  a  question  of  this  sort  without 
warning,  and  Norah  may  have  prepared  herself  for  it,  or  some- 
thing like  it.  But  when  it  came  she  was  taken  unawares  and 
blushed  red.  "  Yes,  of  course  I  shall,"  she  said  hurriedly. 
"  But  tell  me  about  Mrs.  RedclifFe's  house." 

Hilda  looked  at  her  and  saw  that  she  was  to  ask  nothing 
more  concerning  Norah's  plans.  She  told  her  of  a  little  old 
dower  house  on  Francis  RedclifFe's  estate,  in  which  her  mother 
was  to  live,  and  Norah  listened  and  made  comments,  thinking 
all  the  time  of  something  else. 

Then  the  men  came  out  into  the  garden  with  Mrs.  Red- 
cliffe. Francis  had  told  them  the  news,  diffidently,  and  in  the 
baldest  language,  as  he  poured  himself  out  a  glass  of  port. 
They  all  stood  together  in  a  little  group,  and  were  very 
friendly.  Francis  even  ventured  to  pat  his  arm  round  Hilda's 
waist  with  an  air  of  proprietorship  as  they  talked.  She  was 
his  property  now,  and  he  was  going  to  take  care  of  her  and 
give  her  everything  in  the  world  she  wanted.  There  were  con- 
gratulations and  a  little  chafF,  and  some  mention  of  the  time 
when  Exton  would  be  deserted.  But  no  one  seemed  to  re- 
member that  Norah  would  still  be  left  behind,  and  she  had  not 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CHANGE      451 

the  courage  to  remind  them  of  the  fact,  which  she  would  have 
done  if  she  had  known  how  to  meet  the  look  with  which  they 
would  have  greeted  the  reminder. 

The  pleasant  stir  of  interest  and  anticipation  with  which 
these  coming  departures  were  announced  and  received  was  so 
different  from  the  blank  depression  which  lay  over  the  vicarage 
on  this  September  Sunday,  that  it  is  painful  to  have  to  turn 
from  them  to  that  home  of  melancholy.  There  were  count- 
less little  preparations  to  make  even  in  the  intervals  of  Sunday 
services,  and  no  time  could  be  spent  in  leisure  when  the 
shadow  of  disruption  hung  over  everything.  Perhaps  the  com- 
plete absence  of  confidence  which  had  now  come  to  be  the 
everyday  note  of  the  intercourse  between  the  Vicar  and  his 
wife  made  it  easier  for  both  of  them  to  adapt  themselves  to  the 
wrench.  It  had  come  to  be  a  natural  thing  for  each  to  guard 
against  impulses  towards  the  other,  and  this  self-restraint  could 
now  be  used  as  a  defence  against  the  appeal  of  inanimate  ob- 
jects. When  both  together  might  have  mourned  as  they  went 
steadily  forward  with  the  disintegration  of  their  home,  pride 
kept  them  from  giving  way  apart,  and  they  kept  a  callous  face 
to  one  another,  never  soothing  themselves  with  an  expression 
of  sentiment  or  regret.  Active  antagonism  had  died  down. 
They  had  to  be  much  together,  to  discuss  plans  and  arrange- 
ments, to  agree  to  this  or  that,  to  help  each  other  frequently 
in  matters  where  help  was  necessary.  They  met  now  with- 
out awkwardness,  and  anything  like  angry  speech  between 
them  would  have  been  as  unlikely  to  happen  as  if  they  had 
been  in  perfect  accord.  But  the  gulf  had  not  narrowed. 
They  were  as  far  apart  in  sympathy  as  ever,  and  as  little  likely 
to  come  together  again,  less  likely,  for  custom  had  begun  to 
salve  over  their  estrangement,  and  the  impulse  to  end  it  at  any 
cost  was  no  longer  imperative.  There  were  times  when  each 
of  them  felt  this  impulse,  and  might  have  acted  on  it  if  the 
other  had  felt  it  concurrently.     But  when  one  had  been  soft 


452  EXTON  MANOR 

the  other  had  been  hard,  and  it  seemed  as  if  they  might  settle 
down  permanently  to  an  unhappy  existence  of  mutual  indiffer- 
ence, almost  mutual  dislike,  unless  something  should  happen 
suddenly  to  break  up  the  crust  that  was  hardening  over  their 
hearts. 

And  to  add  to  the  troubles  of  both  of  them  at  this  trouble- 
some time  a  letter  had  been  received  at  the  vicarage  the  morn- 
i.ig  before  from  Fred,  which  dispersed  finally  all  the  hopes  of 
an  opulent  future  that  had  seemed  to  be  within  his  grasp. 
His  father  had  handed  over  to  him  the  remnant  of  his  legacy 
some  months  before,  and  he  had  embarked  it  in  the  undertak- 
ing which  he  had  described.  The  money  had  gone,  chiefly 
into  the  pocket  of  the  German  who  had  victimized  him  and 
his  friend,  and  the  swindler  had  vanished,  leaving  behind  him 
a  few  scores  of  photographs  wonderfully  coloured  by  hand  to 
represent  the  remains  of  Fred's  little  fortune. 

The  Vicar  and  his  wife  talked  it  over  as  they  drank  a  cup 
of  tea  in  the  half  dismantled  dining-room. 

"  I  blame  myself  for  giving  way,"  said  the  Vicar.  "  I  ought 
never  to  have  let  him  have  the  money." 

"  It  was  foolish,  certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice,  who  had 
begged  him  at  the  time  to  do  so,  "  but  it  seemed  such  a  good 
thing.  I  wish  I  could  see  that  German  for  a  few  minutes. 
He  would  remember  it.  There  is  one  thing — such  wicked 
dishonesty  cannot  prosper.  But  no  pains  must  be  spared  to 
bring  him  to  justice." 

"  I  doubt,"  said  the  Vicar,  "  whether  it  will  be  worth  while 
to  throw  good  money  after  bad  in  pressing  him.  You  would 
probably  not  find  him  easy  to  catch.  However,  I  shall  hear 
about  it  from  Fred  to-morrow.  Poor  boy,  he  writes  in  great 
dejection.  It  has  been  a  rude  awakening  for  him.  I  hope 
that  in  the  end  it  will  not  be  a  bad  thing.  Now,  he  will  have 
to  work  hard  and  make  his  own  way  by  himself.  I  am  afraid 
that  he  must  be  in  difficulties.     I  have  no  doubt  that  he  has 


THE  SHADOW  OF  CHANGE  453 

anticipated  the  money  he  thought  he  would  get,  and  has  run 
into  debt  again.     We  must  get  to  the  bottom  of  that." 

"  I  do  hope  that  you  will  not  be  harsh  with  him.  He  has 
had  quite  enough  disappointment,  and  not  through  his  own 
fault,  already." 

"  I  shall  not  be  harsh  to  him.  I  only  want  to  help  him, 
and  I  will  do  so  to  the  limit  of  my  power.  I  shall  go  up  by 
the  early  train.  I  should  have  liked  to  bring  him  back  with 
me,  but  I  suppose  that  is  impossible  in  the  present  state  of  the 
house.  However,  we  shall  all  be  together  for  a  time  when  we 
go  to  London,  and  we  must  all  start  our  work  afresh.  None 
of  us  have  been  very  successful  this  year." 

"  The  fault  is  not  with  us,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice.  "  It  is 
the  wickedness  of  others  that  has  hindered  us." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

THE    SUBSTANCE    OF   THE    SHADOW 

Mr.  Prentice  went  up  to  town  early  the  next  morning  and 
came  down  again  by  the  five  o'clock  train.  As  he  sat  in  a 
corner  of  a  third-class  carriage  looking  out  on  the  falling  dusk, 
and  afterwards  into  the  darkness,  he  went  over  in  his  mind  all 
that  had  passed  between  him  and  his  son  during  that  trying 
day,  and  gained  little  satisfaction  from  what  he  had  learnt,  or 
from  the  thought  of  what  was  to  be  done  in  the  immediate 
future.  Fred  had  disclosed  to  him",  without  reservation,  a  tale 
of  monstrous  folly  and  credulity.  From  his  admissions  it 
would  have  seemed  that  suspicion  of  the  swindler  who  had 
duped  him  and  his  friend  ought  to  have  occurred  to  any  level- 
headed man  very  soon  after  their  taking  up  his  supposed  in- 
vention. But  Fred  had  declared  that  he  had  had  no  suspicions 
of  the  pretended  inventor,  although  he  had  never  liked  him, 
until  the  money  had  disappeared  and  the  inventor  with  it.  He 
had  gone  on  in  blind  credulity.  He  had  even  borrowed  more 
money  from  his  friends  to  put  into  the  syndicate  when  he  was 
told  that  more  money  was  required,  and  owed  some  hundreds 
of  pounds  which  he  had  no  means  of  repaying.  And  further 
than  this,  he  had  launched  out,  in  anticipation  of  wealth,  into 
an  extravagant  way  of  living  which  had  already  involved  him 
in  debt  to  the  extent  of  over  a  thousand  pounds  more.  He 
was  penniless,  without  prospects  or  even  the  means  of  making 
a  living,  and  he  owed  something  like  two  thousand  pounds. 

What  was  to  be  done  ?  Mr.  Prentice  could  pay  the  debts, 
but  they  would  swallow  up  every  penny  of  his  small  savings, 
and  he  would  have  to  sell  nearly  everything  he  possessed  be- 
sides.    Then  he  would  start  life  again  at  the  age  of  fifty-five 

454 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  THE  SHADOW      455 

with  about  a  hundred  pounds  a  year  of  his  own  and  the  remote 
chance  of  being  presented  to  an  incumbency  which  would  pro- 
vide him  with  a  living.  He  could  not  see  that  he  was  justified 
in  doing  this.  If  he  had  been  remaining  at  Exton  he  would 
have  paid  his  son's  debts  in  full  and  still  been  able  to  live  on 
his  income.  But  now  his  income  would  be  of  the  smallest. 
He  intended  to  take  a  curacy  in  London  and  wait  until  a  liv- 
ing was  offered  him,  not  minding  very  much  if  he  never  got 
another  living,  for,  after  all,  his  work  in  the  Church  was  the 
chief  thing  that  occupied  his  thoughts.  But  for  him  and  his 
wife  to  live  on  an  income  of  perhaps  four  hundred  a  year  and 
make  some  provision  for  old  age  was  one  thing,  and  to  throw 
themselves  on  the  world,  and  support  a  son  until  he  could  sup- 
port himself,  on  about  half  that  income,  or  less,  was  quite  an- 
other. And  yet  he  had  such  a  horror  of  debt  that  he  could 
not  reconcile  it  with  his  conscience  to  keep  his  stored-up 
money  while  his]son's  creditors  went  unpaid.  Fred,  in  his  help- 
less dejection,  had  mentioned  the  bankruptcy  court,  but  such  a 
way  of  escaping  the  burden  of  debt  seemed  to  the  Vicar  noth- 
ing less  than  dishonourable.  Try  as  he  would,  he  could  see 
no  way  out  of  the  difficulty,  and  as  the  train  rushed  on  through 
the  gathering  darkness,  the  closing  night  seemed  to  be  one 
with  the  black  perplexity  to  which  his  thoughts  tended. 

He  thought,  without  anger,  of  his  son.  Fred  had  been 
broken  up  with  helpless  regret  at  what  he  had  done.  He  had 
offered  no  justification  of  his  folly  to  his  father's  strictures. 
No  blame  could  deepen  the  state  of  remorse  in  which  he  had 
found  him.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  Vicar  knew  that  this 
crisis  in  his  affairs  once  over  his  spirits  would  rebound,  and  he 
would  put  his  troubles  away  from  him.  It  was  difficult  to  deal 
with  such  a  character.  He  could  only  hope  that  this  last  les- 
son would  be  such  a  severe  one  that  he  would  not  run  the  risk 
of  having  it  repeated.  Fred's  weakness,  disastrous  as  it  had 
been,  could  only  arouse  the  desire  to  protect  him  in  the  heart 


456  EXTON  MANOR 

of  his  father,  and  if  he  could  see  his  way  in  the  present  break- 
ing-up  of  his  own  life  to  help,  he  would  do  so,  and  hope  for 
the  best.  But  how  to  help  !  No  light  came  to  him,  although 
his  thoughts  were  busy  with  the  problem  during  the  whole  of 
the  two  hours'  journey  to  Greathampton. 

He  got  out  of  the  fast  train  to  wait  for  the  slow  one  which 
should  presently  take  him  on  to  the  station  for  Exton,  but  as 
he  walked  up  the  platform  he  was  hailed  from  the  window  of  a 
first-class  carriage  by  Mrs.  Firmin  of  Standon  House,  who  was 
going  on  to  Woodhurst,  and  offered  him  a  lift  thence  in  her 
motor-car.  So  he  arranged  for  a  telegram  to  send  back  his  own 
conveyance,  and  bundled  back  into  the  train  again. 

Mrs.  Firmin's  car  was  a  big,  new  one,  with  a  closed-in  body. 
The  Vicar  asked  if  he  might  sit  in  front.  He  wanted  the  re- 
freshment of  the  mild  night  air  of  the  forest,  and  he  could  not 
support  the  idea  of  a  desultory  conversation  during  the  six-mile 
drive,  so  he  took  his  place  by  the  chauffeur^  and  Mrs.  Firmin 
and  her  maid  were  shut  in  behind. 

They  rolled  away  from  the  station  and  through  the  outskirts 
of  the  village  into  the  country  lanes,  and  then  into  the  broad 
forest  road  and  the  mysterious  darkness  of  the  great  trees. 
There  was  no  moon  and  no  stars,  but  the  strong  light  of  the 
two  great  lamps  illumined  the  road  before  them  with  a  misty 
radiance.  The  car  swung  on  at  a  high  speed,  with  a  musical 
note  of  power  in  its  engines.  The  light  fell  on  tree  trunks 
and  shadowy  masses  of  foliage,  slipping  by  and  immediately 
swallowed  up  again  in  the  darkness.  They  sped  over  a  bridge 
and  up  a  steep  slope  without  change  of  gear,  and  round  a  sharp 
corner  guarded  by  white  posts.  A  rabbit  jumped  across  the 
road  immediately  in  front  of  them,  and  another  one  ran  along 
by  their  side,  confused  by  the  glare  of  the  lamps,  and  darted 
again  into  the  fern.  The  air  was  mild  and  fragrant  with  the 
breath  of  the  forest,  and  the  Vicar's  brain  cleared  as  if  by 
magic,  and  everything  became  plain  to  him. 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  THE  SiiADOW      ^57 

He  would  do  his  duty.  He  would  take  his  son's  folly  upon 
his  own  shoulders  and  denude  himself  of  all  that  he  pos- 
sessed to  straighten  out  the  tangles  of  his  life.  He  would 
trust  in  God  for  the  future.  What  was  the  poor  provision 
he  had  made  for  his  own  comfort  beside  the  inexhaustible 
stores  he  had  to  draw  on  ?  He  would  not  be  forsaken, 
even  though  all  his  worldly  possessions  were  taken  from 
him. 

His  heart  leapt  with  gratitude  and  faith.  He  would  lose  all, 
but  he  would  gain  all.  He  had  a  moment  of  intense  spiritual 
joy,  and  as  the  tide  of  emotion  ebbed  it  left  behind  it  a  deep 
happ  ness  and  a  clear  outlook  into  the  future.  Surely  now, 
if  he  made  this  sacrifice,  his  son  would  take  counsel  of 
himself,  and  put  away  his  follies.  He  loved  him  and  he 
would  have  confidence  in  him.  His  wife !  She  would  be 
one  with  him  in  this.  She  loved  the  boy  too,  and  would 
be  willing  to  make  sacrifices  for  him.  The  necessity  fordoing 
so  would  bring  them  together  again.  They  would  begin  a 
new  life.  All  the  confusion  and  misery  of  the  past  few 
months  would  be  swept  away.  He  would  no  longer  seek  to 
bring  home  her  faults  to  her  by  severity  and  disapproval.  She 
would  respond  to  his  love,  and  she  would  weep  for  her  faults, 
brought  home  to  her  by  her  own  conscience,  when  they  should 
begin  together  their  new  life  of  high,  self-denying  endeavour. 
Poor  Agatha !  So  hardly  driven  by  her  bitter  nature  !  He 
would  shield  and  protect  her  against  her  own  lower  impulses. 
He  would  be  strong  in  love  and  patience.  Never  again  would 
they  be  parted,  but  go  down  the  vale  of  life  together,  bear- 
ing all  things,  hoping  all  things. 

The  car  had  come  up  a  long  straight  slope  bordered  by 
conifers  and  banks  of  rhododendron,  and  now  swung  round 
into  a  road  that  rose  and  dipped  between  low  oaks  and 
cleared  ground,  carpeted  with  withered  bracken,  on  its  way 
to  a  high-lying  open  heath.     "  Nearly  ran  into  some  forest 


458  EXTON  MANOR 

ponies  here  as  I  came  down,"  said  the  chauffeur^  and  the  car 
went  forward  at  a  slower  rate. 

The  Vicar  drew  in  a  breath  of  the  sweet,  fresh  air,  rarer 
now,  as  it  filtered  through  the  trees  from  the  high  wide 
spaces  of  the  heath.  It  was  redolent  to  him  of  familiar 
memories.  He  felt  a  gentle  regret  for  this  beautiful  country 
in  which  he  had  made  his  home,  and  which  he  was  so  soon 
to  leave.  But  his  exalted  spiritual  state  forbade  painful  re- 
pining. He  was  at  peace  with  all  men.  Yes,  even  with 
Lady  Wrotham,  who  had  spoilt  his  work  and  driven  him 
out.  Her  motives  were  good.  She  was  sincere,  if  mistaken. 
God  grant  that  when  he  had  gone,  and  the  disputes  and 
friction  had  died  down,  religion  would  come  once  more  to  be 
a  real  thing  in  Exton.  It  would  not  be,  in  all  respects,  the 
religion  he  had  laboured  earnestly  to  teach,  but  he  saw 
clearly  now  that  form  was  a  small  matter,  if  the  spirit  was 
present,  and  the  spirit  was  a  wide  thing  embracing  the 
universe,  blowing  where  it  listed  and  confined  to  no  creed. 
He  had  put  his  trust  in  the  sacraments  of  the  Church,  and 
his  faith  in  his  creed  was  unshaken.  But  God's  grace  could 
not  be  confined.  It  would  work  amongst  the  souls  of  men, 
though  the  Church  itself  should  be  annihilated.  He  raised 
his  eyes  to  the  cloudy  vault  of  darkness,  and  saw  above  it 
the  power  and  glory  of  the  God  in  whom  he  believed. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  muttered  exclamation  from  the 
chauffeur^  a  confused  noise  of  galloping  hoofs,  a  great  swerve 
of  the  car,  a  downward  lurch,  a  shock  and  a  breaking.  The 
car  recoiled  and  stood  still  for  a  moment,  its  engines  racing. 
The  chauffeur  was  thrown  violently  against  the  steering  wheel 
but  fell  back  into  his  seat  with  a  groan  as  it  jerked  forward 
again,  and  managed  to  guide  it  into  the  road  and  bring  it  to 
a  standstill  in  a  few  yards.  Just  behind  it  the  Vicar  was 
lying  senseless,  huddled  up  against  a  tree  on  to  which  he  had 
been  thrown  as  the  fore  part  of  the  car  had  struck  the  pony 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  THE  SHADOW      459 

full  in  the  flank,  after  the  sudden  turn  which  had  taken  him 
unawares  and  dislodged  him  from  his  seat. 

There  were  shrieks  from  the  inside  of  the  carriage.  The 
chauffeur  sat  still  a  moment  to  regain  his  breath,  and  then 
extricated  himself  and,  bent  with  pain,  opened  the  door. 
"  Oh,  what  is  it !     What  is  it  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Firmin. 

The  car  was  standing  still,  half  across  the  road,  one  of  its 
lamps  shattered,  but  otherwise  uninjured.  "Three  or  four 
ponies  ran  across  me,"  gasped  the  chauffeur.  "  I'd  just  turned 
to  escape  them  when  another  come  and  we  run  right  into  him. 
The  gentleman  was  thrown  out.     I'm  afraid  he's  hurt." 

He  took  the  small  lamp  from  behind  the  car  and  turned 
back,  still  groaning.  He  had  broken  a  rib  against  the  steer- 
ing wheel,  which  had  saved  him  from  being  thrown  over  the 
bonnet  of  the  car.  Mrs.  Firmin  and  the  maid,  shaken  only 
by  the  shock,  alighted  and  went  back  too.  The  Vicar  was 
lying  where  he  had  fallen,  and  from  his  head  trickled  a  thin 
stream  of  blood  and  soaked  into  the  damp  soil.  There  was 
no  sign  of  the  pony,  which  had  been  knocked  over  by  the 
impact,  but  had  risen  and  hobbled  away  after  its  fellows  into 
the  forest. 

"  He  is  badly  hurt,"  said  Mrs.  Firmin.  "  Oh,  what  shall 
we  do  ?     He  cannot  lie  here.     Are  you  hurt  too,  John?  " 

"  I  think  I've  broke  something,  ma'am,  but  I'm  feeling  a  bit 
better." 

"  Can  you  help  me  lift  him  into  the  car  ?  "  Mrs.  Firmin 
was  kneeling  beside  the  senseless  form  on  the  ground,  regard- 
less of  her  velvets  and  furs,  supporting  his  head.  "  We 
could  do  it,  all  three  of  us.  Can  the  car  go  on,  or  is  it  dam- 
aged ?  " 

"  It's  only  the  lamp  broke,  ma'am.  But  there's  a  house  a 
few  yards  on." 

"  Yes,  of  course  there  is.  Wallace,  you  had  better  run 
there    and   get   help.     John,  can  you  get  my  dressing-bag  ? 


46o  EXTON  MANOR 

There  is  a  little  brandy  there.  Take  some.  We  must  not 
give  it  to  Mr.  Prentice,  but  there  is  eau  de  Cologne.  Bring  it 
to  me." 

She  did  what  she  could,  but  the  Vicar  never  stirred  or 
opened  his  eyes,  lying  there  helpless  until  a  man  who  lived 
in  a  cottage  on  the  borders  of  the  heath  and  the  wood  came 
running  back  with  the  maid.  Then  they  got  him  on  to  the 
floor  of  the  car  between  them  and  she  supported  his  head 
on  her  lap  as  they  drove  on  to  Exton,  and  to  the  vicarage. 

And  so  the  Vicar  was  brought  back  to  his  wife  whom  he 
had  left  in  the  freshness  of  the  morning  without  her  having 
so  much  as  come  to  the  door  to  bid  him  farewell. 

She  sat  by  his  bedside,  with  dry  eyes  and  a  startled,  in- 
credulous look  in  them,  some  hours  later.  Everything  had 
been  done  that  could  have  been  done.  Mrs.  Firmin  had 
gone  off  to  fetch  the  doctor  who  lived  five  miles  away.  Her 
man  was  suffering  considerable  pain  but  he  declared  himself 
able  to  drive  so  far  out  of  hi^  way.  The  doctor  had  come 
over  on  his  own  motor  bicycle,  and  when  he  had  seen  what 
was  necessary,  had  ridden  to  the  Forest  Lodge  and  Mr 
Ferraby  had  sent  off  a  car  to  Greathampton  to  bring  back  a 
surgeon.  There  had  been  a  wait  of  two  hours  during  which 
Mrs.  Prentice  strove  to  bring  home  to  herself  what  had 
taken  place  and  to  fight  off  the  awful  feeling  of  dread  that 
hammered  for  admission  to  her  brain.  Neither  she  nor  the 
doctor  could  do  anything  but  wait,  and  though  she  plied 
him  with  entreaties,  he  would  not  say  anything  more  hopeful 
than  that  he  hoped  the  Greathampton  surgeon  would  be  able 
to  do  something.  It  was  plain,  if  she  had  allowed  herself  to 
accept  it,  that  he  himself  had  little  hope, 

A  little  comfort  had  come  with  the  surgeon  ;  the  bustle 
of  his  arrival,  his  self-reliant  bearing  and  direct,  confident 
speech  had  eased  the  tension.  She  had  been  shut  out  of 
the  room  while  the  two  doctors  had  performed  the  operatioiv 


THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  THE  SHADOW       461 

which  might  save  her  husband's  life — she  had  come  to 
admit  that,  that  his  very  life  hung  on  the  success  of  this 
operation — but  when  it  was  over  something  very  like  despair 
had  settled  down  on  her  heart  again.  The  doctors  had  come 
out  of  the  room  with  grave  faces.  Neither  of  them  had 
given  her  a  word  of  hope.  There  was  nothing  new  to  look 
forward  to,  nothing  that  could  be  done  to  stem  the  current 
flowing  out  to  the  waters  of  death,  and  turn  it  back  to  the 
bright  fields  of  life.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  wait 
and  watch,  with  the  numbing  consciousness  that  life  was 
ebbing  away,  slowly  and  surely,  and  the  dark  waters  would 
presently  swallow  it  up. 

The  Greathampton  surgeon  had  motored  back  to  the  hos- 
pitalities of  the  Forest  Lodge,  which  were  somewhat  over- 
clouded by  this  sudden,  terrible  occurrence,  but  not  so  much 
as  to  be  quite  extinguished,  and  the  local  doctor  was  lying 
down  in  another  room.  Mrs.  Prentice  was  alone  with  her 
husband. 

He  was  lying  with  his  eyes  open,  their  pupils  widely  dilated, 
but  no  consciousness  in  them.  His  head  was  bandaged  and 
he  was  breathing  heavily.  With  the  outside  of  her  brain  she 
knew  that  he  was  dying,  but  she  had  not  yet  admitted  it  to 
herself;  only  that  he  was  in  grave  peril,  and  beyond  the  reach 
of  her  most  anxious  care.  Once  or  twice  she  bent  over  him 
and  looked  into  his  eyes.  It  seemed  impossible  that  he  should 
not  be  aware  of  her,  and  answer,  or  at  least  show  that  he 
heard  if  she  spoke  to  him.  But  the  eyes  showed  no  sign  of 
the  brain  behind  them,  and  the  noisy  breathing  went  on 
monotonously,  the  knell  of  hope. 

She  was  full  of  terror  and  compunction.  She  could  not 
command  her  thoughts ;  they  were  in  a  whirl  of  confusion. 
But  one  little  fact  kept  rising  to  the  surface  like  a  bit  of 
wreckage  in  a  whirlpool  to  show  what  was  beneath  the  sur- 
face.    She  had  let  him  go  away  this  morning  without  a  fare- 


462  EXTON  MANOR 

well.  The  custom  of  many  years  had  nearly  brought  her 
to  the  door,  but  pride  had  risen  up  and  held  her  back,  and  he 
had  driven  away  unsped.  She  could  hear  the  wheels  of  the 
carriage  now  on  the  soft  gravel.  He  had  driven  away  to 
this,  and  this  was  her  punishment  for  not  bidding  him  good- 
bye. It  was  monstrous.  Why  should  she  be  punished  like 
this  ? 

Oh,  but  it  could  not  be.  He  would  get  well,  and  every- 
thing would  be  as  it  had  been  before.  No,  not  as  it  had  been 
before.  She  had  done  wrong.  Without  a  vestige  of  exact 
thought,  either  of  self-defence  or  self-accusation,  on  the  events 
of  the  past  months  and  what  had  led  up  to  them,  she  yet  ac- 
knowledged that  she  had  done  wrong.  He  had  blamed  her, 
but  not  harshly,  not  undeservedly,  and  he  had  been  right  to 
blame  her.  But  he  was  a  good  man  and  a  kind  husband. 
He  would  forgive  her,  and  they  would  be  friends  again,  and 
happy  together.  She  had  only  to  ask  his  forgiveness  and  turn 
to  him,  and  all  would  be  as  it  had  been  throughout  the  years 
of  their  married  life ;  better  than  it  had  been,  for  she  would 
be  careful  not  to  offend  him  again.  If  only  this  breathing 
would  stop,  and  he  would  close  his  eyes  and  sleep  !  When 
he  awoke  again  he  might  forget  that  she  had  not  said  good- 
bye to  him  in  the  morning.  At  any  rate  he  would  forgive  her 
that,  and  other  things. 

Her  thoughts  chattered  lightly.  This  was  the  husband  of 
whom  she  had  been  so  proud.  She  remembered  little  details 
of  his  wooing  of  her,  a  handsome  young  man,  rather  sought 
after  by  the  ladies  of  his  congregation,  full  of  energy  and  high 
ideals.  He  had  had  eyes  only  for  her.  In  the  early  days  of 
his  priesthood  his  views  had  been  considered  advanced,  but 
hers  had  been  just  the  same  as  his,  and  when  at  last  they  had 
been  married  and  settled  down  to  a  life  of  very  happy  poverty 
and  hard  jvork,  they  had  seen  eye  to  eye  in  everything.  How 
proud  he  had  been  of  his  little  son,  and  how  ready  to  give  up 


1  HE  SUBSTANCE  OF  THE  SHADOW      463 

his  personal  comfort  on  behalf  of  the  baby  in  their  narrow 
quarters.  They  had  been  very  happy  in  those  early  days  be- 
fore promotion  had  come,  living  strictly  and  rather  meagrely, 
Sut  with  nothing  to  cause  them  anxiety  in  their  own  home, 
iiowever  ready  to  burden  themselves  with  the  griefs  of  their 
poorer  neighbours.  Her  thoughts  roamed  idly  over  the  years  in 
London.  Somehow  there  was  a  barrier  to  keep  them  behind 
the  point  at  which  the  London  work  had  been  exchanged  for 
the  more  spacious  and  comfortable  life  of  the  country  vicarage. 
But  as  they  wandered  from  one  point  to  another,  idly,  almost 
pleasantly,  the  background  of  gloom  and  dread  deepened,  until 
at  last  the  black  consciousness  of  loss  broke  through  them  and 
flooded  all  her  brain.  Her  husband  was  dying.  He  would 
never  speak  to  her  again,  never  look  on  her  to  know  her  face. 
With  a  cry  of  anguish,  she  threw  herself  on  to  the  bed,  and 
wept  and  wailed  for  her  loss. 

The  doctor  came  hurrying  into  the  room,  and  would  have 
removed  her  forcibly,  but  she  held  back  her  grief  and  de- 
spair, and  stood  up  to  face  him.  "  You  can  leave  me  with 
him  now,"  she  said.  "  I  know  the  worst,  and  I  won't  give 
way  again." 

He  paused  irresolutely.  The  dying  man  lay  quiet,  deaf 
.0  that  agonized  cry  and  to  everything  around  him.  The 
breath  came  and  went  in  his  throat,  his  eyes  stared  unseeing 
in  front  of  him.  Nothing  she  could  do  would  hasten  or  re- 
tard his  passing.  But,  for  her  own  sake,  he  would  have  stayed 
with  her  till  the  end. 

"  I  must  be  alone  with  him,"  she  repeated.  "  I  won't  give 
way  again.  I  have  so  little  time  to  be  with  him.  Please  leave 
me."     And  he  went  out  again. 

Now  the  deeps  were  broken  up  and  the  waters  flowed.  She 
wept  bitterly,  but  without  noise.  Everything  was  plain  to 
her,  all  her  unworthiness  and  the  torrow  which  she  had  brought 
to  him  during  these  months  which,  had  she  but  known  it. 


464  EXTON  MANOR 

were  to  be  his  last  on  earth.  The  memory  of  that  bitter  time 
would  never  pass  away  from  her  as  long  as  she  lived.  He  was 
a  good  man,  and  she  had  never  valued  him  as  he  deserved,  had 
given  him  much  cause  for  sorrow,  and  had  latterly  grieved  him 
to  the  point  of  death.  She  could  not  put  away  from  her  the 
thought  that  this  accident,  coming  just  at  the  time  of  the 
climax  in  affairs,  was  somehow  the  outcome  of  them,  and 
that  she  was  partly  responsible  for  it.  More  than  once  her 
despair  threatened  to  overwhelm  her  again,  but  she  always 
beat  it  down,  and  her  tears  flowed  afresh  to  wash  it  back. 
Presently  one  thought  held  her  to  the  exclusion  of  every- 
thing else.  He  was  still  alive,  still  with  her,  and  she  must 
make  the  most  of  the  time  until  death  tore  him  from  her 
altogether.  With  a  heart  almost  suffocating  with  pain,  she 
gazed  on  him,  holding  his  cold  hand.  His  harsh  drawing 
of  breath  became  music  in  her  ears,  because  it  still  meant 
life ;  his  meaningless  stare  held  no  terror  for  her,  because 
she  saw  herself  reflected  in  still  living  eyes.  She  embraced 
his  rigid  form,  smoothed  his  bandaged  brow,  murmured  words 
of  love.  She  felt  a  kind  of  fierce  joy  in  the  thought  that  he 
still  lived  and  was  still  hers.  She  had  projected  herself  into 
the  dreadful  future,  and  held  him  as  if  he  had  been  given 
back  to  her  from  the  dead. 

Presently  she  lay  quite  still  beside  him,  her  eyes  closed.  It 
might  have  been  thought  that  she  was  asleep. 

The  grey  dawn  filled  the  window  panes.  The  birds  under 
the  eaves  twittered  a  welcome  to  a  new  day.  And  with  the 
dawn  the  heavy  breathing  lessened  and  died  away,  and  the 
Vicar  entered  upon  another  life's  work. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

RECONCILIATION 

"  I  MUST  go  to  her,"  Mrs.  RedclifFe  said. 

Hilda  looked  at  her.  There  was  concern  in  her  face,  but 
some  indecision  too.  "  Poor  woman  !  "  she  said.  "  But  do 
you  think  she  will  see  you,  mother  ?  " 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  rose  from  the  table.  "  I  don't  know,"  she 
said.     "  But  I  must  go." 

There  was  no  feeling  in  her  mind,  as  she  walked  down 
from  the  White  House  to  the  village,  but  one  of  deep  compas- 
sion. Mrs.  Prentice's  behaviour  to  her  was  forgotten.  Her 
mind  did  not  even  dwell  on  the  possibility  of  her  having  to 
face  some  awkwardness  in  going  to  the  vicarage.  She  went 
as  she  would  have  gone  a  year  before,  when  she  and  Mrs. 
Prentice  were  on  friendly  terms.  She  went  because  her  sor- 
row and  pity  might  soothe  the  shocked  spirit  of  a  woman  who 
had  received  a  deep  wound,  and  there  was  no  room  in  her 
mind  for  the  least  degree  of  selfish  consideration. 

She  was  shown  into  the  dining-room,  the  only  sitting-room 
in  the  house  which  remained  habitable,  and  here  there  were 
everywhere  signs  of  the  coming  change,  which  had  been 
merged  in  a  change  of  so  much  more  terrible  an  import. 
She  was  thrilled  with  a  fresh  pang  of  sorrow  as  she  realized 
how  this  arrested  demolition  of  her  home  must  add  to  the 
distress  of  the  bereaved  woman. 

The  door  opened,  and  Mrs.  Prentice  entered.  She  had 
mastered  her  grief  for  the  time,  and,  though  her  eyes  were 
red  and  her  face  was  pale,  she  was  not  otherwise  altered  in 
appearance.  She  shut  the  door  behind  her  and  came  towards 
Mrs.  Redcliffe  with  an  air  of  offence.     She  opened  her  mouth 

465 


466  EXTON    AANkj^ 

to  speak,  and  it  was  plain  that  her  intention  was  to  ask  the 
reason  of  an  intrusion  j  or  it  would  have  been  plain  if  there 
had  been  any  one  in  the  room  to  take  notice  of  her  man- 
ner. Mrs.  RedclifFe  saw  nothing  of  it.  She  saw  only  a 
woman  who  had  suffered  a  cruel  and  stunning  blow,  and  sh« 
saw  her  only  dimly,  through  her  tears.  She  came  forward 
with  an  inarticulate  cry  of  grief  and  sympathy,  and  the  nex*- 
moment  Mrs.  Prentice  was  clinging  to  her  and  weeping  on 
her  shoulder. 

They  sat  together,  and  the  poor  broken  woman  sobbed  out 
her  grief  and  her  contrition.  *'  He  was  so  good,"  she  said. 
"  I  see  it  all  now ;  and  how  right  he  was  in  everything  and 
how  wicked  I  have  been.  And  for  months  I  have  hardly 
spoken  a  kind  word  to  him.  How  can  I  go  on  living  with 
that  to  remember  ?  I  did  not  even  say  good-bye  to  him  when 
he  went  away  yesterday  morning.  I  never  spoke  to  him,  and 
he  was  brought  back  to  me  to  die.  Oh,  how  can  I  bear  the 
thought  of  it  ?  " 

She  rocked  herself  to  and  fro  m  an  agony  of  grief.  Truly 
here  was  occasion  for  sorrow  beyond  human  power  to  console. 
Mrs.  RedclifFe  comforted  her  as  well  as  she  was  able,  an. 
presently  she  grew  a  little  calmer. 

"  You  are  very  good  to  me,"  she  said.  *'  I  have  behavee 
badly  to  you  too." 

But  Mrs.  RedclifFe  stopped  her  at  once.  "  My  dear," 
she  said,  "  that  is  all  over  and  done  with.  I  have  put  it 
quite  away  from  me.  Anything  that  I  had  to  forgive  I  have 
forgiven  fully  and  freely.  It  shall  never  come  between  us 
again." 

The  poor  woman  wept  again,  and  talked  of  her  dead, 
lying  oblivious  of  her  remorseful  sorrow.  But  she  was 
calmer. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  what  a  comfort  it  is  to  have  you 
with    me,"   she   said.     "  I  have   no   friends   now,  and   it   is 


RECONCILIATION  467 

my  own  fault.  Oh,  that  I  could  have  the  past  months  back 
again !  '* 

They  talked  of  the  future.  "  Poor  Fred  is  on  his  way 
here,"  she  said.  "  He  has  been  in  sad  trouble — about  money 
— and  it  was  on  his  account  he  went  up  to  London  yesterday. 
1  don't  know  what  was  settled.  But  I  know  that  he  would 
only  have  been  kind  and  helpful.  Oh,  the  loss  of  his  wisdom 
and  love !  I  don't  know  what  will  happen  now.  We  shall 
be  very  poor.  But  why  do  I  talk  of  that  ?  Nothing  matters 
except  his  loss." 

Neither  of  them  had  heard  a  ring  at  the  bell  and  voices 
outside  the  room.  The  door  was  opened  and  Lady  Wrotham 
was  announced. 

She  came  into  the  room  slowly,  leaning  on  her  stick.  Her 
face  showed  deep  concern. 

Mrs.  Prentice  sprang  to  her  feet.  "  Why  do  you  come 
here  ?  "  shfe  cried.  Her  eyes  blazed  and  her  hands  were  tight 
clenched. 

Lady  Wrotham  stood  still,  but  she  showed  no  surprise  at 
her  reception,  nor  did  her  face  change  its  expression.  "  I 
came,"  she  said  quietly,  "  to  tell  you  how  shocked  and  grieved 
\  am  to  hear  of  your  loss,  and  to  ask  if  I  could  do  anything  to 
.'lelp  you."  , 

"To  help  me!  "  echoed  Mrs.  Prentice,  "^oa  to  help  me  ? 
You  who  did  all  you  could  to  make  his  life  wretched — the  last 
months  he  had  on  earth.  You  who  had  driven  him  out  of  the 
place  and  turned  everybody  who  loved  him  against  him !  I 
wouldn't  accept  help  from  you  if  I  were  starving.  And  you 
haven't  come  to  offer  help.  You've  come  here  to  triumph 
over  me.  You've  had  your  way.  The  good  man  you've 
persecuted  is  lying  up-stairs  dead.  He  won't  trouble  you  any 
more.  You've  got  rid  of  him  now.  Why  can't  you  leave 
me  alone  ?  I  don't  want  you.  I  never  want  to  look  on  your 
face  again." 


468  EXTON  MANOR 

She  poured  out  her  words  in  a  torrent  of  scorn  and  anger, 
and  then  sunk  into  her  seat  and  burst  into  hysterical  tears. 

''  It  is  perhaps  natural  that  you  should  look  upon  me  as 
an  enemy,"  said  Lady  Wrotham ;  "  but  death  ought  to  do 
away  with  enmity.  There  is  none  left  in  my  thoughts.  I 
am  deeply  sorry  for  everything  that  has  happened.  I  would 
undo  it  if  I  could.  Can  you  not  forget  what  is  past  and  let 
me  be  a  friend  to  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Prentice.  "  I  do  not  want  your  friend- 
ship. You  have  behaved  wickedly.  You  divided  me  from 
my  husband,  and  when  I  would  have  gone  back  to  him  it  was 
too  late.  Oh,  too  late,  and  I  shall  never  be  able  to  tell  him 
how  sorry  I  am." 

She  broke  down  again,  sobbing  and  moaning. 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  rose  from  her  seat.  "  I  think,"  she  said, 
"  it  would  be  better  to  leave  her  now.     I  will  stay  with  her." 

The  two  women  faced  one  another.  Each  had  latterly 
played  a  large  part  in  the  life  of  the  other,  but  they  had  never 
yet  met  face  to  face  or  had  speech  together. 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  are  here,"  said  Lady  Wrotham.  "  I 
will  go  now  ;  but  Mrs.  Prentice  must  not  think  that  I  bear 
any  ill-will  towards  her  for  what  she  has  said  to  me.  I  am 
deeply  grieved  on  her  account,  and  if  she  will  see  me  later  on 
I  will  come  to  her  again." 

She  turned  and  went  out  of  the  room.  "  I  won't  see  her," 
cried  Mrs.  Prentice.  "You  must  not  let  her  come  again. 
It  was  she  who  made  the  mischief.  I  should  not  have  had 
this  terrible  estrangement  to  reproach  myself  with  if  it  had  not 
been  for  her." 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  stayed  with  her  all  the  morning.  The  poor 
woman  clung  to  her,  and  would  not  let  her  go.  She  took  her 
up  to  the  darkened  room  where  her  husband  lay,  with  all  the 
trouble  and  anxiety  of  life  smoothed  out  of  his  face.  She 
relied  on  her  for  a  decision  as  to  all  the  wearying  details  that 


RECONCILIATION  46^ 

had  to  be  settled  as  the  hours  went  on  i  she  drew  on  her  strong 
faith  for  consolation,  and  gained  some  patience  and  resigna- 
tion in  her  trial. 

Fred  came  about  noon,  dazed  with  horror  and  incredulity, 
and  then  Mrs.  RedclifFc  went  away  and  left  the  mother  and  son 
to  bewail  their  loss  together. 

Mrs.  RedclifFe,  when  she  reached  home,  was  for  a  time 
almost  prostrated  by  the  stress  of  emotion  she  had  under- 
gone. Hilda  made  much  of  her  and  drew  from  her  an 
account  of  what  had  passed,  but  she  told  her  nothing  of  Lady 
Wrotham's  visit.  It  was  of  so  little  importance  beside  the 
great  fact  of  the  Vicar's  death  and  Mrs.  Prentice's  unhappy 
state  that  she  did  not  think  of  it. 

*'  I  am  so  glad  you  went,  mother,"  Hilda  said.  "  I  know 
you  must  have  done  the  poor  thing  good.  Norah  has  been 
here,  and  she  would  like  to  have  gone,  but  was  afraid  that  she 
wouldn't  want  her.  And  Mr.  Browne.  He  is  going  to  do 
everything  he  can  to  relieve  her  of  trouble.  She  will  find 
every  one  kind  now.     But  you  are  the  best  of  all." 

Francis  RedclifFe  hung  about  the  room  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  honestly  solicitous,  but  feeling  rather  helpless. 
Hilda  induced  her  mother  to  go  up-stairs  and  lie  down,  and 
then  returned  to  him,  her  eyes  glowing. 

"  Don't  you  think  my  mother  is  the  most  wonderful  woman 
you  have  ever  known  ?  "  she  said.  "  Poor  Mrs.  Prentice — 
she  is  in  terrible  trouble  now  and  one  tries  to  forget  every- 
thing she  has  done,  but  it  isn't  easy,  even  now.  But  mother 
has  forgotten  all  about  it.  She  was  annoyed  when  I  asked 
her  if  it  had  been  mentioned.  Oh,  Francis,  I  haven't  got  a 
character  like  that." 

He  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders  and  looked  into  her 
eyes.     "  You  have,"  he  said,  "  if  you  only  knew  it." 

But  Hilda  turned  away.  "  You  don't  know  what  you're 
saying,"  she  said.     "  Mother  is  a  saint,  and  I'm  anything  but 


470  i:XTON  MANOR 

that.  But  to  live  with  her  and  know  her  makes  you  want  to 
be  like  her." 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  was  sitting  in  the  parlour  in  the  afternoon 
and  Francis  and  Hilda  were  in  the  garden.  It  was  still  golden 
weather  and  the  glass  doors  were  wide  open.  Hilda  came 
through  them  in  a  hurry.  "  Mother,"  she  said,  "  Lady 
Wrotham  is  coming.  Her  carriage  has  just  come  through  the 
gate.     What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  was  flurried  for  a  moment.  "  I  forgot  to 
tell  you,"  she  said,  "  that  Lady  Wrotham  came  to  the  vicarage 
while  I  was  there  this  morning.  She  wants  to  see  me.  You 
had  better  go  out  again.     I  will  see  her  alone." 

Hilda  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  went  out.  Mrs 
RedclifFe  rose  from  her  seat  and  then  resumed  it.  Lady 
Wrotham  was  announced. 

*'  Mrs.  RedclifFe,"  she  said,  as  the  door  was  closed  behind 
her,  "  I  hope  you  will  not  resent  my  coming  to  see  you. 
There  have  been  misunderstandings  between  us  for  which  I 
take  the  blame.  I  hope  that  you  wish  them  at  an  end  as  much 
as  I  do." 

*'  I  am  very  glad  you  have  come.  Lady  Wrotham,"  said 
A4rs.  RedclifFe.  "  As  for  what  is  past  we  need  think  of  it  no 
more.  It  no  longer  troubles  me,  and  I  do  not  think  that  you 
need  take  the  blame  for  it." 

The  air  of  tension  relaxed.  Both  ladies  sat  down,  and 
Lady  Wrotham  said,  "  I  cannot  blame  myself  for  wantonly 
spreading  abroad  gossip  about  you,  for  I  never  meant  to  do 
that,  and  was  greatly  concerned  when  I  found  it  was  being 
done.  But  I  wish  now  that  when  I  first  knew  I  had  done 
you  an  injury  I  had  seen  you.  I  could  have  helped  you  to 
meet  it,  and  perhaps  we  might  have  been  friends." 

There  was  no  trace  of  her  usual  haughty  manner.  There 
was  apology  in  her  bearing  as  well  as  her  speech.  Mrs. 
RedclifFe  found  herself  drawn  towards  her. 


RECONCILIATION  471 

"I  wish  we  could  have  been  friends,  Lady  Wrotham,** 
she  said.  "  But  I  shall  leave  Exton  now  with  very  different 
feelings  to  what  I  should  have  done  if  I  had  never  seen  you 
to  talk  to.  And  you  must  not  think  of  me  as  having  borne 
you  any  ill-will,  now  for  a  long  time  past.  I  think  it  has 
been  as  much  our  fault  as  yours  that  we  have  not  come  to- 
gether before.  Things  have  been  said  in  the  heat  of  the 
moment  that  you  must  have  found  it  difficult  to  forgive;  and 
I  can  only  thank  you  for  overlooking  them  and  coming  to  see 
me  now." 

"  I  was  coming  before,"  said  Lady  Wrotham.  "  And  I 
was  angry  with  your  daughter,  I  confess,  for  putting  it,  as  I 
thought,  out  of  my  power  to  do  so.  But  I  will  think  of  that 
no  more,  I  can  understand  that  a  high-spirited  girl  might 
not  weigh  her  expressions  very  carefully,  if  she  thought  that 
her  mother  was  being  badly  used.  I  should  like  to  see  her 
presently  and  congratulate  her  on  her  engagement.  And, 
Mrs.  Redcliffe,  you  understand  how  it  was  that  I  seemed  to 
have  set  on  foot  the  trouble  you  underwent  earlier  in  the  year, 
while  I  am  really  not  entirely  responsible  for  it,  and  you  will 
not  let  it  stand  between  us  now." 

"  Indeed,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Redcliffe.  "  It  is  over,  and  troubles 
me  no  more.  And  you  must  remember,  too,  that  it  has  really 
resulted  in  great  happiness,  for  it  brought  Francis  Redcliffe  to 
us,  and  I  cannot  see  anything  but  happiness  to  come  to  my 
daughter  from  her  marriage  with  him." 

"  I  am  very  glad  that  you  can  look  upon  it  in  that  way,  and 
I  am  only  sorry  that  we  have  not  come  together  before,  for  I 
think  that  perhaps  we  might  have  helped  one  another  in  many 
ways.  You  may  judge  what  a  terrible  shock  poor  Mr. 
Prentice's  death  has  been  to  me,  after  all  that  has  happened 
between  us.  I  feel  almost  as  if  I  were  in  some  way  respon- 
sible for  it,  as  that  poor  woman  said  this  morning," 

Her  manner  changed  from  the  dignity  and  self-possession, 


472  EXTON  MANOR 

with  which  she  had  made  her  peace  with  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  to 
one  of  acute  distress.  She  seemed  to  shrinic  into  herself,  and 
no  longer  sat  erect  in  her  chair.  Her  face  plainly  betokened 
doubt  and  self-reproach,  and  Mrs.  RedclifFe  divined  in  a  flash 
of  insight  that  the  great  lady,  thoroughly  upset  by  what  had 
happened,  had  come  to  her  for  comfort  and  support,  just  as 
Mrs.  Prentice,  after  her  first  impulse  of  offence,  had  gone  to 
her.  She  drew  her  chair  a  little  closer  to  Lady  Wro- 
tham's. 

"  I  am  quite  sure,"  she  said,  "  that  you  ought  not  to  allow 
yourself  to  think  that.  Poor  Mrs.  Prentice  hardly  knew  what 
she  was  saying  in  her  grief,  and " 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  what  she  said,"  cried  Lady  Wrotham. 
"Poor  woman,  I  forgive  her  that  freely.  I  think  nothing 
of  it.  It  is  what  I  feel  myself.  I  did  make  his  life  hard 
for  him,  and  it  is  true,  quite  true,  to  say  that  I  drove  him 
away.  I  meant  to  do  so.  I  don't  think  I  felt  any  enmity 
towards  him  personally.  I  liked  him,  apart  from  what  I 
believed  was  his  dangerous  teaching.  I  respected  him,  and 
according  to  his  lights  I  am  sure  he  was  a  good  man.  But 
it  seemed  impossible  to  keep  on  anything  like  cordial  terms 
with  him  while  I  was  doing  all  I  could  to  get  him  removed, 
and  of  course  she  made  it  quite  impossible  afterwards.  But 
his  death  seems  to  have  altered  everything.  I  have  tried  to 
do  what  I  thought  to  be  right  in  the  position  in  which  I  am 
placed,  but  I  seem  to  have  brought  nothing  but  unhappiness 
here.     Oh,  Mrs.  Redcliffe,  I  feel  it  very  deeply." 

Probably  no  one  had  ever  seen  Lady  Wrotham  in  tears, 
but  Mrs.  Redcliffe  was  very  nearly  seeing  it  now.  She  was 
no  doubt  in  deep  distress,  and  inclined,  against  every  habit 
she  had  formed  during  a  long  life,  to  blame  herself  severely 
for  what  she  had  done.  It  was  not  easy  to  pour  balm  into 
her  wounds,  for  it  was  impossible  to  acquit  her  of  overbearing 
harshness  towards  the  man  whose  death  had  brought  her  mis- 


RECONCILIATION  473; 

takes  home  to  her,  and  it  would  have  seemed  to  Mrs.  RedclifFe 
a  disloyalty  to  his  memory  to  do  so. 

"  I  think,"  she  said,  "  that  at  a  time  like  this  it  is  natural 
that  we  should  blame  ourselves  severely  for  any  unkindncss  we 
may  have  committed.  But  it  is  certain  that  those  who  have 
left  us  cannot  join  in  the  blame,  and  I  think,  if  we  regret  it, 
they  may  know  of  our  altered  feelings." 

"  Do  you  really  believe  that  ?  I  hope  it  is  so,  for  I  cannot 
deny  that  he  had  reason  to  think  harshly  of  me." 

"  I  don't  think  he  did  so.  I  think  he  gave  you  credit  for 
sincerity,  as  you  have  given  him  credit.  It  is  possible  to 
respect  those  who  differ  from  us  honestly,  and  he  respected 
you.     I  am  sure  of  it." 

"  Do  you  think  he  did  ? "  asked  Lady  Wrotham  rather 
weakly.  "  I  should  like  to  think  so.  But  I  must  not  dwell 
on  that.  I  see,  quite  plainly,  that  I  have  been  wrong  in 
many  ways.  I  have  searched  out  my  heart.  Humility  is 
becoming  to  a  Christian.  Perhaps  it  has  not  been  a  virtue 
that  I  have  followed  very  closely.  This  shock  has  brought 
certain  things  clearly  home  to  me,  and  it  is  a  good  thing  to 
know  one's  self  thoroughly.  No.  I  can  see  that  with  all 
my  desires  to  play  my  part  well,  I  have  not  been  successful. 
I  have  brought  strife  where  before  there  was  peace  and  con- 
tentment, and  it  grieves  me  deeply  to  be  obliged  to  confess  it. 
Now  everything  is  breaking  up.  Poor  Mr.  Prentice  is  dead 
and  his  wife  is  going  away.  You  are  leaving,  and  others  too, 
and  I  shall  be  left  alone  here  to  remember  what  has  come  to 
pass,  and  to  regret  it  deeply.  How  little  I  thought,  only  a  few 
months  ago,  that  it  would  come  to  this  !  " 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  hardly  knew  what  to  reply  to  this  outburst 
of  self-reproach,  half  grotesque,  half  pathetic.  She  realized 
that  she  was  witnessing  a  rare  exhibition  of  feeling,  one  prob- 
ably that  few  if  any  of  Lady  Wrotham's  intimate  friends 
would  have  deemed  her  capable  of.     But  she  saw,  too,  that 


474 


EXTON  MANOR 


alongside  the  hurt  pride  and  the  tardy  conviction  of  error, 
there  lay  the  sense  of  isolation,  the  appeal  for  sympathy  and 
companionship.     She  responded  to  it  generously. 

"You  will  gather  other  friends  round  you,"  she  said,  "and 
I  am  sure  that  with  your  desire  to  help  them  there  will  be 
happiness  both  for  yourself  and  for  others  who  come  to  live 
here.  I  think,  perhaps,  we  wanted  stirring  up  a  little.  We 
were  so  very  pleased  with  ourselves.  And  as  far  as  we  are 
concerned  in  this  house  we  are  happier  now  than  we  were 
before.  You  must  think  of  that,  Lady  Wrotham,  and  do  not 
reproach  yourself  for  what  no  longer  causes  us  any  sorrow. 
I  am  so  glad  that  you  have  come  to  me,  and  that  we  shall  not 
leave  Exton  without  making  friends  with  you.  There  is 
nothing  that  I  should  have  regretted  more  than  that." 

"It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  say  so,"  replied  Lady  Wrotham, 
with  a  return  towards  her  more  ordinary  manner.  *'  I  hope 
you  will  all  come  and  dine  with  me  shortly — perhaps  after 
poor  Mr.  Prentice's  funeral — and  as  far  as  I  can  I  will  try  to 
make  up  to  you  for  the  injustice  you  have  experienced.  But 
you  will  come  and  see  me  before  that,  I  hope.  I  am  getting 
old,  and  I  confess  I  am  lonely  here.  I  shall  be  glad  if  we 
can  become  friends." 

The  reconciliation  was  complete.  The  two  ladies  talked 
together  for  some  time  with  quiet  friendliness,  and  then  Lady 
Wrotham  took  her  leave.  "  I  should  like  to  see  your  daugh- 
ter," she  said,  "  before  I  go." 

They  went  out  into  the  garden  where  Hilda  and  Francis 
RedclifFe  were  walking  together.  They  were  summoned. 
Hilda  came  up  with  an  air  half  of  distrust,  half  of  pride. 
Lady  Wrotham  looked  up  in  her  face.  "Your  mother  has 
made  friends  with  me,"  she  said.  "  I  hope  that  you  will  do 
the  same." 

Hilda  stammered  and  blushed.  "  I'm  afraid  I  was  very 
jrude  to  you  once,"  she  said. 


'  RECONCILIATION  4.75 

"  You  were,*'  said  Lady  Wrotham.  "  But  you  had  some 
reason  to  be,  and  I  have  forgiven  you.  I  am  glad  to  hear 
you  are  going  to  be  married.  Perhaps  you  will  introduce  me 
to  your  cousin." 

The  introduction  was  made,  commonplaces  were  inter- 
changed, and  Lady  Wrotham  got  into  her  carriage  and  drove 
away. 

^^  Francis,"  said  Hilda,  *'  I  have  no  enemies  in  the  world 
now." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

NEW    year's    eve 

It  was  New  Year's  Eve.  The  lamp  outside  the  old  gate 
house  of  the  Abbey,  lit  to  welcome  the  guests  expected  by 
her  ladyship,  threw  its  beams  on  a  road  hard  with  frost. 
The  night  was  clear  and  still,  and  the  moon  was  showing  a 
bright  rim  over  the  western  hill. 

Browne's  dog-cart  came  down  the  road  and  turned  in  under 
the  archway.  The  sharp  impact  of  his  horse's  hoofs  could  be 
heard  long  before  the  lights  showed  round  the  distant  bend. 
Mrs.  O'Keefe's  brougham  followed  it  in  a  few  minutes. 
Then  came  a  landau  from  the  White  House,  and,  finally, 
Turner's  cart  from  the  dark  wood.  The  two  carriages  came 
out  again  and  drove  away.  The  light  was  put  out  and  the 
full  disk  of  the  moon  swung  clear  of  the  horizon. 

The  old  dining-hall,  with  its  vaulted  roof  and  great  open 
hearth,  still  wore  its  Christmas  decoration  of  holly  and  ivy  and 
mistletoe,  and  the  air  of  festivity  suggested  by  these  accessories 
was  repeated  in  the  faces  and  manner  of  the  diners.  One 
would  have  said  that  none  of  them  had  a  care  in  the  world, 
and  it  was  probably  true  that  care  was  as  far  from  every  one 
of  them  this  evening  as  it  could  be  from  nine  people,  all  of 
whom  had  some  experience  of  life  and  a  few  of  them  a  long 
one. 

Lady  Wrotham  sat  at  the  head  of  her  table,  doing  the  hon- 
ours royally.  It  was  the  last  night  of  a  year,  which  had 
opened  for  her  with  sorrow  and  had  gone  on  to  disappointment 
and  loneliness.  And  now  she  was  surrounded  by  her  neigh- 
bours, and  there  was  no  feeling  between  her  and  them  but  one 
of  good-will.     On  her  right  were  Francis  Redcliffe  and  Hilda, 

476 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE  477 

and  on  her  left  Turner  and  Mrs.  RedcHfFe,  and  she  had  some- 
thing to  say  to  all  of  them.  There  was  friendship  and  even 
merriment  and  no  shadow  of  past  disagreement.  Turner 
seemed  to  be  in  specially  high  favour,  and  his  dry  witticisms 
were  received  with  gratifying  appreciation.  But  of  course  it 
was  Wrotham  who  diffused  the  air  of  hilarity  which  was  most 
befitting  the  season.  Francis  Redcliffe  occasionally  dived  be- 
neath the  lively  surface  for  a  moment  or  two  of  privacy  with 
Hilda;  but  Wrotham's  method  was  otherwise.  His  eye  was 
not  infrequently  on  Norah,  who  sat  at  his  left,  and  his  conver- 
sation always  included  her,  but  his  homage  was  paid  through 
the  high  spirits  which  he  brought  to  bear  on  the  whole  com- 
pany, and  his  happiness  was  plain  to  see.  Lady  Syde,  silting 
on  his  right  hand,  may  have  felt  the  warm  glow  of  satisfaction 
which  she  was  entitled  to  feel  at  the  remembrance  of  how  she 
had  removed  a  threatened  danger  to  that  now  consummated 
happiness.  She  took  her  part  in  the  talk  and  laughter  and 
looked  years  younger  than  her  age  as  her  eyes  sparkled  in  the 
keen  face  underneath  the  white  hair.  Browne,  on  her  right, 
was  a  little  out  of  his  depth  with  her,  but  under  the  cover  of 
the  general  conversation  was  able  to  eat  his  dinner  comforta- 
bly and  chuckle  contentedly  at  any  sally  which  his  rather 
slowly  pursuing  brain  succeeded  in  overtaking ;  or  he  would 
address  himself  to  Mrs.  Redcliffe,  who  sat  on  his  other  side, 
and  with  whom  he  always  felt  at  home. 

Later  in  the  evening,  throwing  back  the  window  curtains 
of  the  up-stairs  drawing-room  and  revealing  the  silvered 
stretches  of  the  park,  lit  by  the  most  brilliant  of  moons, 
Wrotham  suddenly  took  it  into  his  head  that  this  was  the  time 
of  all  others  to  visit  the  ruins  of  the  Abbey,  and  rested  not 
until  he  had  bundled  the  ladies  into  their  furs  and  taken  them 
out  into  the  bright,  still  night.  Lady  Wrotham  and  Lady 
Syde,  their  remonstrances  overborne,  sat  on  by  the  fire,  but 
Mrs.  Redcliffe  joined  the  party  of  adventure,  probably  guess- 


4^8,  EXTON  MANOR 

ing  that  that  party  would  inevitably  break  into  fragments,  and 
willing  to  be  the  companion  of  the  two  who  would  not  ar- 
dently desire  to  snatch  a  few  minutes'  conversation  with  one 
another  under  romantic  circumstances. 

"  Sarah,"  said  Lady  Syde,  when  the  door  had  closed  on  the 
talk  and  laughter  and  the  two  old  ladies  were  left  to  the  silence 
of  the  big  room,  "this  is  a  far  happier  state  of  things  than  was 
the  case  a  few  months  ago.  It  seems  a  pity  that  it  should 
have  come  so  late,  and  now  it  has  come  that  it  should  so  soon 
be  ending." 

Lady  Wrotham  did  not  reply  for  a  moment,  but  sat  gazing 
into  the  fire,  with  a  look  on  her  face  that  it  was  difHcult  to 
interpret. 

^'  Exton  will  not  be  so  lively  when  the  changes  have  come 
about,"  she  said.  "  But  we  are  getting  old,  Henrietta,  you 
and  I,  and  when  you  settle  down  at  the  White  House,  we 
shall  no  doubt  be  able  to  amuse  one  another  in  a  quiet  way 
without  missing  the  liveliness." 

"  You  say  that  because  you  want  peace  after  all  the  disturb- 
ances you  have  gone  through,"  returned  Lady  Syde.  "  I  also 
want  peace  for  the  years  I  have  left ;  but  you  may  have  peace 
without  stagnation,  and  I  own  that  the  society  of  young  peo- 
ple is  welcome  to  me.  I  could  wish  that  all  those  who  are 
here  now  were  not  going  to  fly  away  from  us." 

"We  shall  have  George  and  Norah  here  very  often,  I 
hope,"  said  Lady  Wrotham.  "They  both  know  that  I 
wish  that,  and  I  think  they  are  both  anxious  to  meet  my  wishes." 

"  They  should  be,  Sarah.  You  have  behaved  generously 
towards  them.  You  must  feel  it  a  great  relief  to  be  at  last  on 
terms  of  affection  with  George.  You  will  admit  now,  I  sup- 
pose, that  you  have  lost  nothing  by  treating  him  with  less 
harshness  than  before." 

"  I  admit  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Lady  Wrotham  shortly, 
"My  treatment  of  George  was  always  founded  on  justice.     It 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE  479 

is  only  since  he  broke  away  from  the  disastrous  influence  of 
Laurence  that  it  has  been  possible  to  relax  an  attitude  that 
was  called  for  by  what  was  going  on.  If  I  had  treated  George 
with  the  foolish  indulgence  with  which  you  have  treated 
Laurence  there  would  be  nothing  to  choose  between  them. 
One  would  have  been  as  bad  as  the  other.  No,  indeed !  I 
have  nothing  to  regret  there." 

"  Well,"  said  Lady  Syde,  in  no  wise  upset  by  this  turning 
of  the  tables,  "  we  are  not  likely  to  agree  upon  that  point  and 
may  as  well  leave  it.  Laurence  is  not  so  bad  as  he  is  painted. 
He  gave  me  a  handsome  jewel  at  Christmas,  and  I  value  it 
because  I  know  he  is  in  money  difficulties  and  it  meant  a  sac- 
rifice to  him.  But  he  shall  not  lose  by  his  generosity.  You 
will  not  deny,  I  suppose,  that  you  have  made  mistakes  since 
you  have  been  here,  and  have  now  learnt  better." 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  should  either  deny  or  admit  it,  Hen- 
rietta. It  seems  to  me  a  little  odd  that  you  should  show  such 
a  desire  to  charge  me  with  making  mistakes.  At  all  events, 
if  I  had  taken  your  advice,  I  should  have  turned  every  soul  in 
the  Manor  off  it.  It  is  not  for  you  to  charge  me  with  mis- 
takes, which  you  do  probably  because  you  are  annoyed  with 
what  I  said  about  Laurence." 

"  I  am  not  in  the  least  annoyed.  Your  unfairness  to  Lau- 
rence has  always  been  apparent,  and  I  have  always  taken  it 
into  account.  And  as  for  my  advice  to  you,  you  must  remem- 
ber that  I  had  only  heard  one  side.  If  I  had  known  what  sort 
of  a  woman  Mrs.  Redcliffe  was  I  should  never  have  suggested 
your  getting  rid  of  her.  I  should  have  seen  that  she  was  more 
likely  to  be  right  in  any  matter  of  dispute  than  yourself — I 
say  it  in  no  spirit  of  offence." 

Lady  Wrotham  displayed  an  unexpected  meekness  in  face 
of  this  direct  statement.  "  We  need  not  quarrel  about  Mrs. 
Redcliffe,  Henrietta,"  she  said,  quietly.  "She  is  a  noble- 
hearted  woman." 


48o  EXTON  MANOR 

^'  I  quite  agree  with  you,"  replied  Lady  Syde.  "  I  wish  I 
were  more  like  her  myself.  If  I  had  had  such  an  example  be- 
fore me  in  my  youth  I  might  have  been  j  but  at  my  age  it  is 
too  late  to  begin.  I  am  afraid,  Sarah,  that  in  having  me  at 
the  White  House  instead  of  her  the  exchange  will  not  be  al- 
together a  better  one." 

"  As  to  that,"  said  Lady  Wrotham  uncompromisingly,  "  I 
have  no  illusions.  But  we  understand  one  another,  and  there 
is  no  likelihood  of  our  permanently  falling  out,  although,  no 
doubt,  we  shall  often  disagree." 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Lady  Syde.  "  Disagreement  need  not 
destroy  friendship,  and  ours  is  firmly  fixed,  I  hope,  whatever 
we  may  say  to  one  another." 

*'  I  think  it  is,  Henrietta.  I  do  not  resent  your  brusque 
speeches,  though  they  are  often  quite  uncalled  for,  and  I  should 
certainly  do  so  if  they  came  from  any  one  else." 

"  I  speak  my  mind,"  said  Lady  Syde.  "  It  is  the  better 
way.  Sometimes  I  am  wrong,  but  more  often  I  am  right. 
Sarah,  I  am  glad  we  shall  be  together  during  the  coming  year, 
and  I  hope  for  some  years  to  come,  you  in  your  big  house  and 
I  in  my  little  one.  The  changes  in  Exton  benefit  me,  if  no 
one  else." 

"  They  benefit  me  to  that  extent,"  replied  Lady  Wrotham, 
mollified.  "  And,  of  course,  although  Mr.  Prentice's  sudden 
death  was  a  great  shock  to  me,  and  I  have  something  to  re- 
gret in  remembering  what  came  before  it,  it  is  a  relief  to  have 
a  man  like  Mr.  Dacre  here,  with  whom  I  see  eye  to  eye  on 
religious  matters,  and  who  will  help  instead  of  hindering  my 
work." 

"Ah,  well,"  said  Lady  Syde.  "I  won't  say  too  much 
about  that.  You  might  take  exception  to  one  of  my  brusque 
speeches,  as  you  call  them,  if  I  were  to  say  that  you  probably 
hindered  Mr.  Prentice's  work  as  much  as  he  hindered  yours. 
So  I  won't  say  it.     It  is  a  question  for  your  own  conscience, 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE  4B1 

and  if  that  is  at  rest  on  the  subject  I  am  glad  of  it.  I  nevci 
•lict  Mr.  Prentice,  but  I  believe  he  was  a  good  man.  His 
wife,  of  course,  was  a  horror.  You  are  well  rid  of  her,  at 
any  rate." 

"  Poor  woman  !  "  said  Lady  Wrotham.  "  My  anger  against 
her  has  departed.  I  could  even  wish  to  make  friends  with  her, 
but  that  she  would  not  do.  Perhaps  it  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at." 

*^  She  has  been  well  punished  for  her  wickedness.  She  is 
very  poor,  is  she  not  ?  " 

"  She  has  enough  to  live  on.  I — er — there  was  a  fund.  I 
could  not  very  well  subscribe  to  it  in  my  own  name  -,  she  might 
not  have  accepted  my  help;  but  I  did  so  through  George. 
That  must  not  be  mentioned,  Henrietta.  And  Mr.  Prentice 
left  a  little  money.  She  can  live  without  anxiety,  I  am  glad 
of  it.  And  Mr.  Ferraby  was  kind  enough  to  find  a  position  in 
his  business  for  her  son,  who  was  extravagant  and  brought 
trouble  to  his  father.  That  is  all  happily  settled,  and  he  has  a 
chance  of  doing  well  for  himself." 

"  Mr.  Ferraby  !  Then  you  see,  Sarah,  the  worldly  people 
you  objected  to  so  much,  are  not  without  their  uses." 

"  Henrietta,  do  not  let  us  spar  any  more.  I  am  fully  alive 
to  the  lessons  that  the  past  year  has  brought,  but  I  do  not  wish 
them  thrown  continually  in  my  face.  We  are  none  of  us  too 
old  to  learn,  and  I  dare  say  both  you  and  I  are  wiser  now  than 
we  were  at  the  end  of  last  year,  and  at  the  end  of  next 
year  let  us  hope  we  shall  be  wiser  still.  Learn  by  the  mis- 
takes you  make,  I  say,  but  do  not  always  be  dwelling  on 
them." 

"  Sarah,"  said  Lady  Sydc,  "  I  think  in  some  ways  you  arc 
wiser  than  I  am." 

The  ruined  cloisters  of  the  old  Abbey  lay  white  and  still  un- 
der the  moon.     For  three  hundred  years  they  had  echoed  to 


482  EXTON  MANOR 

the  busy  life  of  praise  and  work  thai  had  been  carried  on  in 
them  day  and  night  to  the  glory  of  the  Lord,  and  for  nearly 
four  hundred  they  had  lain  desolate  and  destroyed,  while  the 
life  of  the  world  had  passed  them  by,  and  work  and  praise  had 
fulfilled  themselves  in  other  ways.  The  grass  had  grown 
green  over  the  graves  of  the  old  abbots  and  churchmen  of  the 
long  distant  past,  and  ivy  and  the  scented  growth  of  myrtle 
and  fig  and  magnolia  had  thrown  a  veil  over  the  scarred  walls 
and  pointed  arches,  as  beautiful  now  in  their  decay  as  they  had 
been  in  the  days  of  their  pride  j  and  never  more  beautiful  than 
on  this  still  winter  night,  when  every  leaf  and  twig  was  im- 
*inovable,  as  if  carved  in  stone,  with  sharp  white  lights  and 
inky  shadows,  bound  in  the  grip  of  the  rimeless  frost. 

It  was  a  scene  of  romantic  beauty,  and  no  doubt  enhanced 
the  delight  of  the  two  pairs  of  lovers  for  whom  there  were 
shadowed  arches  and  doorways  under  which  to  whisper  re- 
newal of  vows  already  many  times  declared.  It  was  as  Mrs. 
RedclifFe  had  foreseen.  Wrotham  and  Norah,  and  Francis 
and  Hilda  had  paired  themselves  and  she  was  left  to  pace  the 
paths  of  the  cloister  garth  with  Browne  and  Turner. 

"  Capital  idea  this,"  said  Turner,  burying  his  hands  in  the 
Qepths  of  his  ulster  pockets  and  hunching  his  shoulders. 
'Much  better  than  sitting  over  a  stuffy  fire  on  a  night  like 
this.     Might  have  picnicked  out  here  if  we'd  thought  of  it." 

"  Always  grousing  !  "  said  Browne.  "  I'm  glad  we  came. 
Never  seen  the  cloisters  look  more  beautiful,  with  the  moon 
and  all  that.     Some  people  would  give  a  lot  to  see  this." 

"  You're  such  a  romantic  young  fellow,"  said  Turner. 

"  Don't  quarrel,"  Mrs.  RedclifFe  interrupted.  "  It  is  the 
last  night  of  the  year.  I  am  glad  we  came,  too,  Mr.  Browne. 
When  you  think  of  all  the  centuries  that  this  quiet  place  has 
seen,  it  helps  you  to  make  little  of  the  troubles  that  life  brings 
you.     They  are  soon  over,  and  then  time  buries  them." 

"  They're  pretty  real  while  they  last,"  said  Turner.    "  We've 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE  483 

had  a  dooce  of  a  lot  of  'em  this  year,  here.  If  you  can  forget 
yours,  Mrs.  RedclifFe,  it  does  you  credit.  But  it's  no  more 
than  I  should  have  expected  of  you." 

"  By  Jove,  no,"  corroborated  Browne. 

"  I  don't  want  to  talk  of  that,"  said  Mrs.  RedclifFe.  "  It  is 
all  nothing  now.  I  was  thinking  of  poor  Mrs.  Prentice. 
This  spot  must  be  much  in  her  thoughts  now.  It  is  a  sad 
time  for  her,  but  even  her  troubles  will  pass  away.  And  as 
for  him,  he  is  lying  here  with  his  life's  work  done,  where  so 
many  others  before  him  were  laid.  They  are  dead,  but  their 
work  goes  on.  Perhaps  not  one  of  them  could  have  been 
spared,  and  their  failures  went  to  make  them  what  they  were 
as  well  as  their  success.'* 

Turner  threw  back  his  head.  "  Life's  a  queer  business," 
he  said,  and  nodded  towards  the  hidden  shadows.  "  They've 
got  the  best  of  it.     They're  young." 

Mrs.  RedclifFe  smiled.  "  I  think  we  have  the  best  of  it," 
she  said,  "  we  who  are  older,  because  we  know  the  worst  as 
well  as  the  best.  And  the  worst  is  not  so  bad,  after  all.  Now 
I  think  we  must  go  indoors  again." 


TH£  END 


UCSB  LIBRARY 


A    000  606  530    4 


